


Infamy

by Yahtzee



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Espionage, First Kiss, First Time, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Nazis, Pastiche, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexual Coercion, South America
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 03:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 46,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1712732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahtzee/pseuds/Yahtzee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Second World War, Erik Lehnsherr -- survivor of Dachau, former resistance fighter in Occupied Europe -- joins forces with US intelligence to hunt down escaped Nazis. A sensitive mission in Rio de Janeiro calls for Erik to recruit a new operative ... one nobody is sure whether to trust. Charles Xavier is the stepson of convicted Nazi spy Kurt Marko, a rapidly worsening drunkard and a homosexual who hardly even bothers to hide his predilections. Hardly ideal. </p><p>But Charles is the only person with any chance of getting close to Sebastian Shaw. The one man who might allow them to complete the mission. </p><p>And although Erik's business is keeping secrets, Charles brings something out in him that he's worked desperately to hide -- </p><p>(Pastiche with Alfred Hitchcock's "Notorious." And now dedicated to the memory of the awesome Clawfoot Tub.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moonlight Serenade

**April 1946**

 

“You accuse me of treason and lock me away – but only because you think you’ve won. You haven’t. The Reich will rise again!”

Kurt Marko’s voice rang out through the entire courtroom. Most of the people watching this ranting man in handcuffs looked on with disgust – including the judge, unfortunately for Marko.

His stepson, Charles, was wondering how long it would be before he could open his next bottle of wine.

“You beat me down because you can – forgetting that not all of us have fallen, that others will not carry on our work – ”

“Silence, Mr. Marko!” The judge slammed down his gavel a few times before pronouncing the sentence: death.

Immediately every newsman in the courtroom, dozens of them, ran for the doors and the long line of pay phones in the hallway. _Good,_ Charles thought. _Maybe that will give me a chance to get by them._

No such luck. There were always a few who didn’t get to a phone, a few who were ready to swarm around the only “friend” of Marko's in the courtroom. Instantly a swarm of fedoras and notepads surrounded him, harshly illuminated by the pops of flashbulbs.

“Mr. Xavier! Do you agree with the judge’s sentence?”

“Were you aware of the spying for the Nazis?”

“Do you think your father is truly guilty?”

“Stepfather,” Charles said. The correction was the only word he spoke as he pushed his way through the press gauntlet and into the street.

It didn’t matter whether the papers called Kurt Marko his father or his stepfather. The connection would linger. People would hear the name Charles Xavier, ask themselves where they’d heard it before, then remember the entire horrible truth: Marko’s position in the aerospace industry that had made him a perfect source of intel for the Nazis, the Allied mission in North Africa that Marko’s information had betrayed, the 173 American soldiers who had bravely, needlessly died in the desert. Charles would forever be stained by that treason – and the widespread, incorrect assumption that he must have cooperated with Marko.

Of course he hadn’t. Charles loathed the Nazis even more than he loathed his stepfather. One hatred was born of principle, the other of bitter experience.

But … Charles had known.

What good now did it do for Charles to remind himself that he’d found out about Marko's spying too late, only after the North African mission and only weeks before the arrest? Or to remember how he’d searched through libraries in an attempt to find a way to pass the information on without disclosing his identity?

 _You might have walked straight to the nearest war office and told all,_ Charles thought as he walked toward the heavy wooden doors of the courthouse. He should have done. But he had been afraid of being deported – or, worse, of being disbelieved. If Marko had been able to slither out of their traps, if he’d had a little more warning and a better lawyer, he could have beaten the rap. Then Charles and his younger sister would have once again been at his stepfather’s mercy.

For himself he might have taken the risk, but Charles could not do that to his sister. Their entire childhood constituted one long lesson in why you would never want to be at the mercy of Kurt Marko.

 _At least Raven's well out of this,_ Charles thought. She was attending university at a small women's college in Vermont, safely protected from the rabid press coverage. If he had accomplished nothing else, at least he had kept his sister safe.

Ironically, the weather that day was beautiful – cloudless skies and the warmth of spring. To Charles, however, the light felt blinding. Every other man on the street wore a hat, but he had never liked the heaviness on his head. Better to let the sun beat down, burn his pale skin raw.

At least the fine weather meant his friends would actually come to the party tonight. They’d all stuck with him so far ... when it wasn’t raining, and when Charles paid for the drinks. Those sorts of friends were as good as it got, for him, probably from now on.

 

**

 

Marko had dragged his entire family to Florida just before the war, ignoring their protests. How could they have guessed that he'd taken the job because his aerospace company was a defense contractor, and the Nazis had already groomed him as a spy? Charles had always thought he'd ditch Florida the first moment he could, but now there was nowhere else he wanted to go, except hell, and he could get there as quickly from Miami as from anywhere else.

Quicker, if you had the right company.

“Come on, Charles!” Angel Salvatore – a chanteuse he’d met in one of the clubs – draped herself across the arm of the sofa. Her gold satin gown shimmered against his silk shirt. “You _have_ to come to Havana with us. It’s going to be so much fun!”

“We’ll set sail in my yacht tomorrow morning,” promised Janos Questad, millionaire playboy and Angel’s current fling. “In Cuba you can get away from all this madness. Enjoy a warm welcome from the locals.”

The sly emphasis Janos put on _locals_ served as tacit acknowledgment that Charles would be seeking those who called themselves señor rather than señorita. No one in this group would ever openly speak of Charles’ homosexuality, and his romances would always be viewed as both strange and somewhat comic … but they did not condemn him. That was as much as he could ask.

Sometimes Charles wondered whether this louche, boozy crew he’d fallen in with in Miami was actually more open-minded than society at large. Other times he thought they were too thoughtless and amoral to give a damn what anyone did in bed. Tonight he was too busy drinking to care.

“Havana sounds divine,” he said as he helped himself to another glass of the chianti – then poured one more, which he walked over to the man he’d just spotted near the door.

Everyone else in this party wore the sort of colorful, luxurious clothes one saw on the rich and spoiled of Miami Beach: Moira’s midriff-baring red silk blouse, or Alex’s white linen jacket. The newcomer was different. His charcoal-colored suit could have belonged to an executive, if that executive cared about impeccable tailoring and had an utterly perfect body. He had dark hair, which he wore slicked back more severely than most men did; his eyes were a blue so pale they might have been gray. While everyone else here laughed and joked and got drunker by the moment, the stranger simply sat in the leather chair, calm – slightly amused, no telling by what – and patient.

And his eyes never left Charles.

That was promising.

“Who are you?” Charles said as he made his way toward the chair. His legs weaved under him – _I must have had a few more glasses than I’d thought_ – but he made it to the newcomer without spilling either of their drinks. He handed one glass of wine to the newcomer, who took it as Charles slumped liquidly upon the ottoman across from his chair. “You’re a party crasher, aren’t you? I like party crashers.”

No response – but the newcomer lifted his glass, as though for a toast. That would suffice. Charles knew a pickup when he saw one, and he was looking at one now.

 _I would’ve wanted to fuck you anywhere_ , Charles thought. _Anytime. But tonight, yes, God, I need you tonight. You can drag me into the bedroom and make me forget everything farther away than your skin._ That seemed to be the only thing Charles wanted any longer: To forget.

The din of the party had not stilled, but by now Angel at least had caught on. Tipsily she giggled as she slid off the arm of the sofa and managed to get to her feet. "I think we've overstayed our welcome."

Charles didn't even bother looking directly at her. His gaze remained only on the dark, exhilarating stranger in front of him. "So glad you came, Angel. Janos. Everyone."

From the corner of his eye he caught the knowing glance Moira gave him as she and Alex swept out the door. Not everyone was as savvy; a small cascade of meaningless jokes and farewells washed over Charles as people took their leave. The only comment worth hearing came from Janos. "Remember, be on my yacht at noon. Don't even bother packing a case – you can pick up everything you need in Cuba."

"Tomorrow at noon," Charles promised, just before the door swung shut, leaving him alone with … "What's your name?"

"Erik."

"Erik. I like that. I'm Charles, by the way."

"Charles." The repetition was more than mere politeness – there was a coolness there, a kind of evaluation. Yet Charles liked the sound of his name in Erik's mouth.

This small beach house had been the first place he could find in the wake of Marko's arrest, and the government's seizure of all his family's assets in the United States. The rent was exorbitantly expensive – the appearance of wealth was probably the only reason Charles had so many new "friends." Appearance was all it came to, though; in another three months or so, Charles would be completely out of cash, and after that, he neither knew nor cared what would become of him.

For the time being, he enjoyed the high life. The main living area of his bungalow had leather furniture, like the broad armchair Erik sat in, and its ottoman, where Charles perched. Cool white walls offset the richly tiled floor, and the high ceilings lifted away the Florida heat. He'd splashed out on a gramophone, which even now played Glenn Miller's "Moonlight Serenade." More than one departing guest had snapped off a lamp while leaving, which meant he and Erik were now illuminated only by a single light in the corner. The chiaroscuro effect suited Erik's features – strong, almost stark, with an expression in his eyes that somehow suggested both coolness and fire.

"So." Charles leaned forward slightly, collar flopping open. He'd ditched his necktie a while ago. "Crash parties often?"

"Virtually never." Erik tilted his head, studying Charles more intently.

"Why did you make an exception tonight?"

"Maybe I liked the music."

"That must have been it."

Erik remained so still. So steady. This was unlike virtually all Charles' previous pickups. Normally you had to telegraph your intentions rather brazenly to make sure the pass you were about to make was desired, welcomed. Otherwise you risked a fist to the gut or, worse, an arrest for "indecent exposure." Yet Erik let his silence speak for him. It was cool, controlled and intensely attractive.

"What kind of music do you like?" Charles murmured, leaning closer. "Besides Glenn Miller."

"Lots of things." Erik's fingertips tapped a slim leather case beside his chair. "Brought a few recordings of my own you might like to hear."

\-- all right, that was original, if a little odd. "Excellent. You'll play them for me, won't you? Teach me all the words?"

"You'll know the words."

Mm, that sounded promising. Charles got to his feet to pour himself another glass of chianti – the last one had emptied so quickly. But when his hand closed around the wine bottle, he realized nothing was inside. He turned his head toward the bar, but tonight's party had ransacked it of nearly everything. He groaned. "We're out of wine."

"Not a problem."

"The hell it isn't." Charles was drunk, very drunk, but still not drunk enough. He could still feel misery, and fear, and shame. He needed to keep downing glasses of wine until he'd drowned every emotion he'd ever had, until he was nothing left but a body for Erik to use. "Come on. Let's go get some more."

Erik glanced at his watch. "At this hour?"

"This is Miami. Sin is available at every hour." He grabbed the car keys from the hook beside the door. "Ready?"

He expected Erik to argue with him about driving; Charles liked that idea, because maybe the argument would get ugly. Words could turn into blows, and this could become a truly dangerous fuck.

Instead Erik simply walked outside without a single protest. The only thing he said, as they reached the curb, was, "Some car."

"My stepfather's." Long, sleek, creamy white – every inch of the automobile advertised wealth and power, both of which had come from the Nazis. Charles hoped to wreck this car someday. Not tonight, though. With a somewhat sloppy flourish, Charles took the top down in the hopes Erik was the type who could be seduced by a convertible. "Get in."

It was a warm night, yet late enough that the streets near his home were relatively deserted. This was for the best, Charles thought, because the road kept blurring in front of his eyes, and he was aware that the center line kept moving all over the place when it shouldn't have. Erik never said a word, never even flinched – but his left hand rested on the space between them in the front seat. The tension in Erik's fingers might have been Charles' imagination – or the fact that Erik was ready to grab the wheel at any moment.

"You don't trust me," Charles said.

"I just met you."

"But you were willing to slip into my house for the night."

"Maybe I trust my instincts."

Where the bloody hell was that liquor store? Charles could have sworn one sat along this long stretch of road. Instead they drove past endless palm trees and golf courses, without a single illuminated sign in sight. Not that he minded the drive, because the combination of the engine's powerful roar and his own tenuous grip on consciousness – it felt like dancing on the high wire.

To hell with looking for the store. He was drunk enough. And if it was truly completely deserted out here … maybe he could desecrate Kurt Marko's car in any number of entertaining ways.

Charles looked over at Erik, whose hair remained unruffled, his suit damnably sleek. "What are your instincts telling you about me?"

"That you might be interested in something I had in mind."

 _Here we go_ , he thought, grin spreading across his face. "And what would that be, exactly?"

Charles never heard the answer, because at that moment the police siren began to wail.

"Damn." His fists tightened around the steering wheel as he saw the flash of red and blue lights behind him. "Think I could outrun a police motorcycle?"

Even this could not disturb Erik's tight composure. "Not worth trying."

"To jail with me," Charles said blithely. At any rate, he hoped it sounded blithe. "Like stepfather, like stepson."

At least this was just for drink driving. In another fifteen minutes, he and Erik might have been arrested for indecency, even for sodomy. Yet at the moment he thought it might have been worth it – because surely getting pulled over by a cop wrecked the mood.

As soon as they'd pulled over, the motorcycle policeman swaggered up to them. "You don't look too steady there, pal."

"It would be very strange if I did," Charles said. He saw no point in trying to bluff his way out of this one. Why not finish the night by going to jail? It couldn't make his day any worse.

The cop took a deep breath, then grimaced. "You smell like a distillery. Okay, buddy. License and registration."

Did he even have these with him? Charles intended to leaf through the glove compartment and see what he could come up with – but then Erik leaned past him, flashing his open wallet at the policeman. "I appreciate your vigilance, officer, but I've got this."

What was _that_ supposed to mean?

Charles watched as the cop straightened. "Yes, sir. You could've just said – "

"I'm saying it now." Erik's voice was not unpleasant, yet as unyielding as steel. "Thank you, officer. Good night."

The policeman touched the brim of his cap, almost a salute, before going back to his motorcycle. As it took off, leaving them alone at the side of the room, Charles said, "You're a cop too, aren't you?"

Erik didn't bother showing Charles his wallet. "That's not how I'd put it."

"But you are. You have to be. You're a goddamned cop." Charles' head reeled with anger and wine. "What's your game? Entrap the traitor's son, so we can put him in prison too? Is that why you came on so – what, were you going to wait until my pants were around my ankles? Make sure my humiliation was complete?"

"Settle down."

Erik might as well have dropped a lit match into gasoline. Charles shoved Erik back, as hard as he could, enough to force Erik against the passenger side door. "What do you want from me? What else is there to take away? The only person left in my family is halfway across the country and needs to stay there. My name is branded with shame, forever, for something I didn't even do. No doctoral program will ever take me now that everyone thinks I was a Nazi like Marko. The money's running out. But no, it's still not enough for you vultures – "

"Hey," Erik said. Gentler now, but still remote. "There's no need for this."

"No need to be upset? Even when I'm better off dead?" Charles hadn't put it in those words before, but now they reverberated within him, the most stinging for being true: _Better off dead._

Erik went for the car keys then, and Charles tried to fight him, but when he did, his head reeled and his gut twisted so violently that he began to retch. As he slumped, semiconscious, onto the seat – helpless now, against anything Erik wanted to do – he wished they'd found that liquor store. Still, he wasn't drunk enough to face what was coming.

Above him he saw Erik's face, blurry and unknowable, and beyond that the darkness of the night sky, and then he saw nothing at all.

 

**

 

"He'll be sleeping this off a while." Erik stood in Charles' living room. The phone cord stretched long enough that he could see Charles lying unconscious atop his still-made bed.

On the long-distance line, static clouded Landau's voice. "Any sense of which way he'll go?"

"The right approach will probably do the trick."

"I don't know, Lehnsherr. A fairy _and_ a drunk? Hardly the ideal candidate."

"Hardly," Erik repeated. His eyes never left Charles' profile, distinct against the dark blue coverlet on his bed. "Still, no one else will do. No one we know of, at any rate."

Landau sighed. "Don't remind me. All right, call me tomorrow morning after you've talked to him."

"Yes, sir."

Once Erik had hung up, he walked back into the bedroom where he'd poured Charles Xavier atop the mattress. The rest of this beach house was decorated in the gaudy style of the nouveau riche – velvet curtains despite the tropical heat, the latest model gramophone, even a phone in white instead of black. But Charles' room contained nothing so showy. Scientific texts and thick novels crowded the bookshelves; a simple braided rug covered the floor. The only decoration appeared to be a photograph of Charles with a young blonde woman – the sister, Erik recalled – embracing at what appeared to be her high school graduation.

It looked almost … wholesome. Even if it was the room of a fairy and a drunk.

Erik stepped closer to where Charles slept. His brown hair hadn't been cut in quite a while, and apparently the man didn't bother with pomade. Charles preferred his appearance as messy as his life, it seemed.

Yet no carelessness could mar the dark arches of his eyebrows, or the deep redness of his lips.

 _Were you going to wait until my pants were around my ankles?_ Charles' voice rang in Erik's memory. Of course he wouldn't have. That wasn't his game, never had been. Yet Erik remained aware that he had allowed Charles to interpret his attention as flirting for far longer than convenient. And he had not stopped Charles from driving while intoxicated, mostly because he had imagined them getting lost, well and truly away from it all, which in the moment he had found appealing.

He did not allow himself to ask why.

Slowly Erik sat on the end of the bed and took one of Charles' feet in his hands. He was able to slide the loafer off silently; Charles didn't stir. Other foot, then.

It was only polite to remove the man's shoes for sleep. Sitting there for a few moments, Charles' foot in his hands – fingers curled around one ankle, feeling the curve of Charles' instep – that was harder to explain. Fortunately Erik did not have to explain it to anyone. Not even to himself, after he walked out to spend a long night on the sofa and wait for the next morning, when he would pull Charles Xavier out of the world he so despised. Put him in the greatest danger he'd ever faced. And, quite possibly, end his life.


	2. Blues In The Night

The headache began before Charles awoke, dully pounding itself into his dreams before forcing him into consciousness. He opened his eyes, then wished he hadn't. Even the dim light piercing the shutters seemed bright enough to sear his retinas. His mouth, dry as cotton, tasted foul – a match for the churning in his belly.

In the past few months, Charles had become something of an expert on hangovers. This was one for the record books.

Then he heard footsteps, and the telltale fizz of Alka-Seltzer. Blinking, grimacing, he pushed himself up onto his elbows to see a dark figure enter the room, glass in hand.

"Thought I heard you," said the man from last night.

Charles remembered it all in a flush – his hopes, his flirtation, and the fact that this guy was only setting him up after all. He would've liked to tell the man to get the hell out of his house, but at the moment he wanted the Alka-Seltzer, and if the man left he might take it with him. As he accepted the glass, Charles croaked, "Is your name really Erik?"

"Erik Lehnsherr. Drink up."

The first swallow was always the best. Although his headache still pressed in at his temples, Charles could at least speak normally again. "If you're here to arrest me, you're taking your time about it."

"That's not what I'm here for." Erik's eyes swept over him, and Charles became newly aware of his dishabille – shirt hanging open and untucked, shoes long gone, slacks rumpled. If Erik had been here for the reasons Charles had originally hoped, he might have woken up much like this.

The contrast between hope and reality soured the morning further. "About time to get to the point, don't you think?"

"Take a shower. Pull yourself together. Then we'll talk."

Warm water always proved restorative, as did a fresh navy linen shirt and pair of white trousers. When Charles walked out to fix his second Alka-Seltzer, Erik raised an eyebrow. "Quite a getup."

"Ideal for sailing." Drunk though Charles had been last night, he had not forgotten Janos' offer to sweep him away from all this for a while. "You let me sleep awfully late. We haven't much time before I'll need to go to the marina. That is, if the police are willing to let me leave the country."

"I'm not with the police."

"What are you, then?"

"Apparently the Washington brass are still arguing over the right acronym to use." Erik walked along the edge of the room, while Charles sat in the softest armchair, fizzing glass in hand. "I work in what you might call international intelligence and security."

"You've an accent, one that's hard to place." Charles' eyes narrowed. "But I'd wager it was German."

"You'd be correct."

Charles' first reaction was fury. If Marko's compatriots thought he could be so easily recruited, he looked forward to proving them wrong … but Erik had shown identification that had easily cowed a Florida police officer. "Why does the U.S. government rely on a German for international security?"

"You make it sound as if I were in charge." This appeared to amuse Erik more than anything else Charles had said – which was to say, not much, but enough to make him smile as he doffed his suit jacket. "Hardly. I'm one cog in the machine."

"Very well, why does the U.S. government rely on a German to be a cog in the machine?"

Erik rolled up his shirtsleeves. "Because I'm a Jew. Hitler killed my entire family, and very nearly killed me as well. The Americans trust me because we share the same enemies."

Horror carved Charles to the quick. Sorrow, too.

"Don't waste your time telling me how sorry you are." Erik's voice was quieter now. More dangerous. "Or asking me what it was like in a concentration camp, or any other facile question that might be floating through your mind. You know I'm no Nazi; so does the government. Leave it at that."

"All right," Charles replied. There was nothing else he could say.

Erik continued, "I escaped Dachau in 1938. Soon afterward I made contact with intelligence networks and resistance workers in France. I took whatever tasks they had for me, gave them as much information as I could learn. At the war's end, a few of the people I'd worked with offered me some interesting opportunities. I accepted this one – not least because it offers me the chance to hunt down every last Nazi that got away."

This was beginning to make sense. "And now you've hunted me down. You'll condemn me for a Nazi, because of what my stepfather has done."

Erik walked toward the gramophone. "Do you remember, last night, how I said I had some recordings I thought you might like to hear?"

"… yes." Where was this going?

"We put your stepfather under surveillance a couple of weeks before his arrest. Bugged every room of your house."

Embarrassment flushed Charles' face with heat. Every room? The government had been listening to him jerking off in the shower, taking a shit, and worst of all, not coming forward with the truth. "Enchanting."

Erik simply dropped the needle onto a record he must have placed there the night before – a disc with no studio label, a custom-made job. Charles startled as he heard Kurt Marko's voice, then his own.

_"You're being naïve. You've swallowed the American propaganda whole."_

_"Maybe it is all propaganda, but if so, I'd rather swallow the American variety than German poison. For God's sake, Kurt, the Nazis? They're murdering people for being Jewish, or Catholic, the gypsies too – by the thousands, at least, probably hundreds of thousands, and it may be even worse than we know –"_

_"The Jews are always the first to complain."_

_"How dare you throw it back on them? How dare you pretend anything could justify Hitler's monstrosities? And you've taken Nazi money, done their bidding. It makes me sick."_

_"You're as weak and cowardly as your mother was. That’s why I know you won't turn me in. But just in case the thought entered your mind – remember, Raven is still my legal ward."_

_"You leave her alone."_

_"That's what you always used to say, when you two were children. As if it ever did any good. If you don't value your own safety, Charles, then think about your sister's."_

Erik lifted the record needle. "You must know there's more in this vein."

"I didn't come forward," Charles said. His voice sounded faint, weak. Pathetic.

"No, you didn't. Because your stepfather extorted your silence by threatening your sister. Nor had you learned the truth in time to stop him from ruining the mission in North Africa." As he stepped away from the gramophone, Erik slipped his suit jacket back on; he was again polished, remote, perfect. "Don't misunderstand me. I think you should've reported him anyway. It's what I would've done in your place. But … it's more difficult to risk someone else, rather than yourself."

Charles swallowed hard. "I think Raven would have accepted that risk."

"We'll never know. The point is, you're no Nazi either. You despise them and everything they stand for. You hate what your stepfather did, and blame yourself for not stopping him." Erik stood in front of Charles now, his pale stare unreadable. "Now I'm giving you the chance to make up for it."

"What chance?"

"The chance to deal the Nazis a blow. The chance to redeem yourself – maybe the only real chance you'll ever get."

By now Charles' head was swimming. "What do you mean about the Nazis?"

"Adolf Hitler might have blown his brains out, but far too many of the Reich's upper echelons escaped. Some of them just want to save their own hides, but others hope to avenge themselves against the Allied powers. One cell in particular – in Rio de Janeiro – we've heard some ominous whispers. We need to infiltrate them, but these aren't people who trust strangers, or share their secrets with just anyone."

The plan snapped into focus within Charles' mind, and his eyes widened with instant understanding. "You think they'll talk to me."

Erik shrugged, too casual, as he sat in the same chair he'd taken last night – the one where Charles had first seen him, and wanted him. "You're the stepson of Kurt Marko, a loyal Nazi supporter and now a martyr to the cause. People already suspect you were in on it; easy enough for us to leak some information in Rio to support that. Some of these men were Marko's friends and confidantes. You might even have met a couple of them before. If anyone could make his way into their ranks, it would be you."

Previously Charles had wondered which of his stepfather's friends were tied to his espionage work. Each and every one had been repellent in some way. Then again, that was probably a prerequisite for liking Kurt Marko. "I see why you'd come to me. Though – I don't know if I'm the type, for a spy."

"You aren't." How hard Erik's words were now, and how cutting his gaze. "As I said, we've had you under surveillance for a while. You're a drunk, you're a queer, and I'd wager you're a suicide risk. Hardly the ideal candidate. But you're the only one who stands a chance of getting in there. So it's my job to sober you up, tell you to keep your Johnson in your pants for a change, and offer you a more interesting way to die."

The way Erik said _queer_ felt like a slap. This was the way most people said it. Yet it stung more coming from a man Charles had all but thrown himself at only hours earlier.

Maybe, Charles thought, he should be more worried about the fact that this mission might lead to his death. But Erik was right about the suicide risk.

Charles glanced at the clock on the wall: 11:30. If he were to reach the marina in time to sail to Cuba with Janos' party, he would have to leave soon.

He rose from his sofa and went to the wet bar. Now that he examined it in the light of day, more or less sober, he could see a couple fingers' worth of gin remained in one bottle. "Are you the one who decided to reach out to me, or the one who had to be convinced to give me a try?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not particularly, but I'm curious. Isn't curiosity a good trait for a spy to have?"

Erik smiled, a guarded expression but a genuine one. This one liked to fence, Charles thought. "I hadn't made up my mind. And it wasn't up to me."

Charles poured the gin into his last remaining clean glass, then downed it in one shot. "Let me end your suspense."

"Back to the bottle, I see." Erik's voice could have etched glass.

That made it all the more pleasure to say, "Hair of the dog. I've got to shake this hangover if I'm going to learn how to be a spy." Charles turned in time to see the surprise on Erik's face – fleeting, but rewarding. It was fun, surprising the cynic. "I assume we'll start today. No time to waste, right?"

"You catch on fast," Erik said, with something like approval.

Charles hadn't been approved of in a long time. He'd missed it. And it was sweeter coming from Erik than it would have been from anyone else.

 

**

 

Landau had been surprised; Erik didn't doubt that most of the higher ups were startled by Charles' quick acceptance. Even the ones who had thought he might take the work – a minority – had assumed a great deal of persuasion would be necessary.

Instead, within two hours of handing Charles Xavier an Alka-Seltzer, Erik was helping him pack for Rio.

"The main training you need is in Portuguese," Erik explained as he went over Charles' passport – British, though he'd lived in the U.S. since his early teenage years. "No need for you to be fluent. But supposedly you've moved down there for good. You'd have studied a few phrases, at least."

Charles nodded as he put a bundle of clothes into his trunk. "It's winter down there, isn't it? But it's winter in Rio. Probably no cooler than winter in Miami."

"Exactly." Then Erik frowned. "You're bringing all those books?"

"Why wouldn't I bring books? It's going to be a while before I can read in Portuguese, I'd imagine." 

"They're … not necessary."

"To you, maybe. But they are to me." Charles smiled – a real smile, not cynical or drunken, the kind of smile he might have had as a boy. The difference it made in his face almost startled Erik.

Maybe "startled" wasn't the right word. But he couldn't look away.

In the same tone as before, Erik said, "We're not sending you to Rio to keep your nose in a book all day."

"No. You're sending me to Rio to pretend that I'm a Nazi sympathizer but otherwise exactly the same young man Marko's cronies would have known. Trust me, if one of them walked into my flat down there and didn't see any books? He'd know something was wrong."

An excellent point. Maybe Charles had some instincts for this work after all. "A bookworm, were you? How things change."

Charles' shoulders stiffened, a shift so minor most men would've missed it. "I haven't wanted to spend much time in reflection, lately."

"Didn't look like it." The next question came out smoothly, as though Erik had never thought about it before. "You'd rather pick up strange men in even stranger bars. Never thought about trying a girl instead?"

"Once, at the movie house, when I saw a picture with Veronica Lake." How blithely Charles spoke. How little it disguised the tension in his voice. "She's a dish, but I doubt she's available. So I pursue other interests. Do you think it's going to be a problem, down in Rio? My lack of interest in the fairer sex?"

"Did your stepfather's friends know about it?"

This made Charles pause. "Some of them. Yes."

"Then act exactly the same as you did before." Would any of them attempt to blackmail Charles with that information? Demand his secrecy about their plans with threats to go to the local police? If they believed they had such leverage over Charles, they might reveal more than they would have otherwise. It might work very well, actually.

How strange, to think of Charles' homosexuality as a potential advantage.

Erik continued, "We'll set you up in an apartment. Buy you some new clothes, get you in a couple of the ritzy clubs, so nobody guesses your money's running low. Speaking of which – you can't be fully compensated until after we pull you out, but you'll be paid well."

"I'm not doing this for money."

"Why, then?"

"Does it matter to you?"

"Curiosity is a good trait for a spy to have," Erik quoted, and was rewarded with another flash of Charles' smile.

"You said I could make up for not coming forward about Marko. I'd thought that was impossible, but now it's not, and – and there's nothing else I want more." On his knees beside his trunk, Charles paused, pushing back his soft brown hair with one hand. How … distracting. This was why men should use pomade. "It doesn't matter whether anyone else ever knows about what I'm doing. It's not about repairing my reputation, not at all. I hadn't realized that about myself."

Erik nodded. "I thought you might be a man who believed in redemption."

Charles remained on the floor, looking up at Erik. "You aren't?"

"For some people, maybe."

After a long pause, Charles said, "But not for you." When Erik stared, Charles said, "You don't have to tell me what for. I'm right, though, aren't I?" The intelligence in those blue eyes came across more clearly when they weren't made lazy by alcohol. "You judge people harshly; I know that much by now. And I think you judge yourself most harshly of all."

Honesty was no virtue in Erik's current line of work. But he wanted to cultivate insight in his new operative – so he told himself. "With the resistance, going against the Nazis, sometimes we had to fight fire with fire." That wasn't what haunted him, though; his time as a guerrilla warrior had never disturbed his sleep. "I had a wife and daughter, before the war. In 1938, Magda hadn't been picked up yet – her family had powerful friends – and there was a chance she'd have been sent to Palestine. The Nazis did that with a handful of us. Germany only wanted to anger the Arabs and weaken British authority in the area, but still. The Haavara Agreement was a way out, maybe the only way out. Magda and Anya could have had that. But when I escaped Dachau, and was known to have joined the resistance … the Gestapo arrested my wife and daughter within the month. Sent them to Ravensbrück. That was a camp especially for women and children. They say conditions there were livable, at first. Slave labor and whippings, but at least the prisoners received food. So Magda and Anya lived long enough to be transported to Auschwitz in 1941."

Why had he quit smoking? Erik wanted a cigarette badly now. No – he wanted to look down as he searched his pockets for a case and a lighter. He wanted to look away from Charles' face as he spoke, but he had no excuse. He had to say it all as Charles watched, and understood.

"Anya wouldn't have survived the first day." Erik had no records proving this, but he knew what happened to very small children at Auschwitz. "She was one of the lucky ones. My wife wasn't. Apparently Magda made it another eight months before she starved to death."

No more words would come. He stood there for a few long moments before Charles rescued him, saying very softly, "How can you blame yourself for that?"

"I escaped. I joined the resistance. If I'd remained at Dachau, I would have died – but Magda and Anya might have made it to Palestine and survived." Erik had been over this again and again in his head. The calculus had seemed so simple when he was in the concentration camp; the Germans had to be defeated, and Magda would have fought as fiercely and fearlessly as he if she'd been given the chance. Yet Erik had made that decision for her, and the consequences would haunt him forever.

He'd thought he was surrendering all of their lives, all three. Never had it occurred to Erik that he might survive the war.

Charles nodded. "That's why you said what you did – about it being harder to take a risk with someone else's life than with your own."  

 _He picks up on things quickly. Makes connections. That's good._ Erik refused to consider any aspect of this besides the tactical. "I made the choice, but they suffered the consequences. There's no redemption for a thing like that."

"You helped win the war, and stop the Germans. What happened to Magda and Anya – " The platitudes obviously hovered just behind Charles' lips, but he managed not to say any of them. "—maybe they died because of what you did, but maybe they didn't. The only thing you know for sure is that you saved other lives. Countless lives."

On one level Erik knew this. Yet his memories of his time with the resistance were about placing bombs on train tracks, shooting men in the night, once strangling a Nazi soldier with his bare hands. The boy had been young. Hard to connect that with salvation – his own or anyone else's.

Now the life he was risking was Charles'.

Erik said quietly, "You understand the stakes, don't you? What will happen if you're found out?"

"When Kurt Marko threatened Raven, I knew he wasn't talking about – pulling her out of school, or anything like that. He was a dangerous man. I'd assume his friends in the Nazi party are worse." Charles' smile was thin. "Is this the part where you tell me I get a cyanide capsule in case of my capture?"

"If you want one."

That wiped the smile from Charles' face. Yet Erik had carried such a capsule for years, and he knew how comforting its presence could be. Charles would see it that way too, soon.


	3. Caravan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday! I celebrate with fic.

Two days after Charles had accepted Erik's offer of "employment," he began the long journey to the Southern Hemisphere. Someday, people said, airplanes would be powerful enough to make the journey without stopping; when that day came, the trip would be far faster. As it was, he and Erik had to travel from Miami to San Juan, then to Belem, before finally catching their final flight to Rio.

Not that Charles minded much. They had to spend a night in each city – which meant more time to get to know Erik.

He found Erik no less attractive for being unattainable. Maybe _more_ attractive: Charles was masochist enough for that. But there were compelling reasons to learn about Erik that had nothing to do with Charles' crush. After all, this person held Charles' life in his hands.

The man was a paradox in countless ways. Erik was cool and controlled, yet Charles could glimpse the banked fire within. Erik talked about Charles as though he were a lost cause, and yet he was the one giving Charles a chance at redemption.

And Erik frequently made contemptuous comments about Charles' predilection for men – while they spent every available moment together, and Erik never once seemed to look away.

Was he tempted? Merely curious?

_Maybe he's studying the person he just recruited for a sensitive secret mission. That would make sense, wouldn't it? You've been spending too much time in airplanes. Time to come back down to Earth._

Regardless of why Erik stared at him so, it was obvious that he'd never make a move. So Charles allowed himself to enjoy Erik's company without worrying about the consequences. In San Juan, they dined in a restaurant by the beach; they argued about politics, but without venom, and learned more about each other.

"Flat feet?" Erik paused, fish still on his fork.

Charles shrugged. "I don't see why that should've stopped me from being a soldier, but they classified me 4F anyway."

"You tried to go to war?"

"Of course."

"But when you couldn't go, you were free to return to your version of the playboy lifestyle."

"If getting a master's degree in molecular biology counts as 'the playboy lifestyle,' yes."

That made Erik smile. "Touché."

"And I did the things we could do on the home front – led a few rubber drives, volunteered to clean up at the USO, so on and so forth. Hard to feel useful when hundreds of thousands of men are fighting and dying. But I tried my best." He felt self-conscious. "Obviously it doesn't compare to what you did."

"Don't compare. We each did what we could do where we were, with what we had. Looking for balance or fairness in wartime will only drive you mad." Erik's words ought to have been a lecture – but they weren't. Instead, Charles felt strangely soothed.

For a few moments neither of them spoke. Charles simply enjoyed the night – warm but not stifling, the air softened by breezes that smelled like the ocean. Their restaurant had a rustic look to it, with a thatched sort of roof over the porch where they dined; they could hear the rush of waves of against sand, and the rustling of palm fronds nearby. A slice of pineapple had been placed on his plate next to his fish, and he picked it up to take a bite. The sweetness made him close his eyes in momentary pleasure.

When he opened his eyes again, Erik was staring at him. Charles glanced at the remaining bit of pineapple in his fingers. "Ought I to have used a knife and fork?"

"No – I mean, I don't know. I don't care. But it looked like it was … good."

"Fresh. They must have picked it only a few hours ago."

Erik picked up his own slice (with his fingers, Charles was relieved to see) and took a bite. When Erik smiled, Charles couldn't help smiling back.

The next night, in Belem, they stayed in the city center and spent the evening wandering through the streets. One moment it seemed to Charles as though they'd stepped back in time, surrounded by colonial-era buildings or strolling past a cathedral. Other times, he might have been back in Miami, with all the colorful shops and bustling, sophisticated clubs. He and Erik dined at an elegant place with a four-course menu, pink linen tablecloths and a chanteuse who sang songs right off the hit parade.

"I ought to have worn my dinner jacket," Charles said, feeling somewhat shopworn in his traveling suit; the other patrons had dressed to the nines, and a few women in their evening gowns had given him disparaging looks. He seemed to be dragging down the entire tone of the place.

"Save it. You'll need your best in Rio." Easy for Erik to say; he'd worn a white dinner jacket. They sat together in a curved leather booth, which made Charles feel a bit as though they were sealed off from the rest of the world. "The people we're going to meet there don't deny themselves the finer things in life. They made their gold the hard way and intend to spend it."

By this, Charles suspected, Erik meant the gold fillings pulled from the teeth of the dead. But he knew they could only speak of this in public in the most circumspect way. "Do I need a tuxedo?"

"If you do, we'll get you one." Erik hesitated. "You haven't had anything to drink tonight."

"Ginger ale."

This response won Charles a raised eyebrow.

Charles sighed. "I'm not a drunk."

"You drank like one."

"I know. Maybe – maybe if this hadn't happened, I might have gone down that road. But you pulled me out of it." Just a few days in the past, and yet to Charles his life in Miami already felt like a bad dream left behind in the morning. "The late nights were about … escape. Trying to get out of my own head."

"Most people don't have the discipline to stop like that."

"I don't know that it's always a matter of discipline – oh, never mind that. It's not hard for me to stop drinking. Don't you see? I finally have something to do that's worth the doing. A purpose, I guess. So I don't have to escape any longer."

Erik's only response was a nod, but Charles had caught the compliment tucked within his words. Impressing someone who had almost given up on him – God, it felt good.

Maybe he didn't have to give up on himself.

The next day, they caught the plane to Rio de Janeiro, though they were careful not to acknowledge each other openly at the airport or during the boarding process. Erik had explained this to Charles the night before: _"We're going to say that I work for Pan Am, and that you and I met on the plane – struck up a conversation, said we'd look each other up in Rio. That way, if we're seen speaking to each other, we have a cover story. But nobody can know we're any better acquainted than that."_

_"Why not?"_

_"They might figure out I'm in intelligence. Unlikely, but I spent a lot of time in Europe making sure the Nazis would never forget me. So we have to plan for the possibility. If I'm some fellow who introduced himself on the plane and keeps dropping by, then it looks like I'm spying on you. But if they realize I brought you here – "_

_"Got it."_

Charles whiled away the hours on the plane as best he could – flipping through an issue of _Look_ he'd brought along, or just staring out the window at the propellers whirring as they skimmed the clouds. The cigarette smoke thickened as the flight went on, which made him cough. Eventually someone handed him a handkerchief; Charles glanced over to see Erik.

"Cigarettes don't agree with you?" Erik said as he took the empty seat next to Charles.

"Smoking may be the only vice I never enjoyed."

Erik smiled, but tightly, and Charles wondered if he shouldn't have spoken so familiarly. Were they pretending not to know each other? Was this when they feigned introductions?

Apparently not, because Erik leaned slightly closer. "Listen. I received a message just before I got to the airport this morning. I wasn't sure when to tell you, but – better now. Gives you a chance to get used to it."

"Used to what?"

"Kurt Marko died yesterday."

At first Charles couldn't make himself understand the words. It was as though Erik had told him, _by the way, Hell no longer exists_. A force of evil in the world that had seemed to Charles implacable, enduring and eternal – gone as if he had never been.

His mouth was dry as he said, "How?"

"Suicide. Managed to hang himself in his cell. They try to guard against that, but this time they failed."

Charles nodded slowly. "Raven's safe now. That's good. I'll write to her about it as soon as we land. She'll see it in the news, I suppose, but still. We ought to talk about it. We need to."

(He had anted up for a long-distance call to tell Raven about his trip to South America, though of course he hadn't been able to tell her why. Instead he'd said something about being in charge of Kurt's affairs now, needing to settle them. Luckily Raven had believed him; she knew little enough of his downward spiral that she read no darker meaning into it. " _It'll do you good to get away. Send me postcards_!")

Erik's gaze searched him, without pity. "You're not reacting the way I thought you would."

"Did you think I'd cry for Kurt Marko? Then you have no idea how I grew up." Charles shook his head as he looked out the window again, at a world without Kurt in it. "I'd tell you if I wouldn't have to drink a couple of martinis first. Not a pretty story. At least it's over."

"That's not what I meant. I thought you'd be … satisfied. Glad, even. Calling the stewardess over to get some champagne."

"Cold-blooded, don't you think?"

"No more so than Marko himself."

"Point taken." Charles considered for a moment, staring out the window the whole while. "I hated Kurt Marko – for what he did to me, to my sister, and above all to my mother. But his death doesn't undo any of that. The scars remain. They'll never heal. So. No champagne."

Erik was so quiet that Charles suspected contempt. No wonder. He sat here complaining about bruises and a few broken bones while Erik had suffered in a concentration camp.

Yet when he glanced back at Erik, all Charles saw in his eyes was compassion – so astonishing and so deep that Charles couldn't meet his gaze for long. He stared down at the magazine in his lap, unable to read the words written there, and tried to keep his composure.

"You'll have to pretend to mourn him," Erik said, softly enough that no one else around was likely to hear. "If you can. This might even work to our advantage."

"Kurt's friends will be in mourning, won't they? And they'll want their revenge." Charles wondered privately whether this might not make the men he hunted more suspicious; after seeing one of their own caught, convicted and dead by his own hand, they had to be more aware of the danger they were in. But probably he could work with the angle Erik had suggested.

"Exactly." After a long pause, Erik said, "You're listed at next of kin. Any suggestions on what to do with the body?"

"Burn it," Charles said. Marko had thought that a fitting end for Jews, homosexuals, gypsies and anyone else who opposed the Third Reich. Let him taste the fire for himself.  "No gravestone necessary."

"Done."

Charles had thought Erik would go back to his seat then, but instead they remained by each other's side. He thought about pretending to read _Look_ a bit more, but that would be both unconvincing and ridiculous. Still, he could hardly say what was really on his mind. _Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for giving me a chance, for lifting me out of my drunken haze and letting me see the world clearly again. Thank you for not turning away even though you must understand I look at you, I think about you, all the time –_

"There," Erik said. He pointed past Charles toward the window. "We're about to land."

Below them, the clouds had drifted apart just enough to reveal the statue of Christ the Redeemer – its arms outspread atop Mount Corcovado as it reached forever toward the horizon and the sea. Charles could only gape at first, thinking he'd never seen anything so beautiful.

Yet more than the statue's beauty struck him. The meaning resonated with him in a way it never had before. The statue faced east, welcoming every new day and new beginning.

 _All I want is a chance to redeem myself._ His own words echoed within his mind more fully and powerfully than they ever had before. And when Charles glanced back at Erik and saw him smiling too, it really felt as though it would be possible to wash clean, and start anew.

 

**

 

Erik had already given Charles a packet of Brazilian _cruzerios_ worth nearly two thousand US dollars, as well as the directions for the apartment already rented for him downtown, near Cinelândia Square. Although they spoke cordially as they disembarked – like new but enthusiastic acquaintances – Erik simply turned away afterward, not even watching Charles hail his taxi. They had arranged an outing to Guanabara Bay tomorrow, like any other two sightseers new to town, but if all went well, Erik would neither see nor speak to Charles until then.

He had to get used to these silences. From now on, Charles would have to play this largely on his own.

Erik had been assigned a new apartment as well, small and plain in a shabbier area of downtown, which suited him. Instead of exploring the cabinets or the neighborhood, he instead took himself off to the American Embassy, and to the office in the basement that had nothing to do with diplomacy.

"You're sure he's going straight to the apartment?" Landau said in the meeting that followed.

Erik nodded. "Xavier knows what to do."

"But will he do it?" said someone else farther down the table, someone whose face was all but obscured by the cigarette smoke in the room. "Or is he going to head down to the waterfront to pick up some rough trade?"

The thought of it slashed across Erik's heart like claws. "I doubt it." The words came out cool, assured. "Xavier's pulled himself together. He hates the Nazis even more than he likes his bottles or his boys."

Putting it that way felt disloyal, though Erik didn't care to analyze why.

"Let's hope so," Landau said, stubbing out his own cigarette in the glass ashtray at the center of the table. "A lot rides on him."

Another man added, "Lots of guys ride on him, you mean."

Most of the other men at the table laughed. Erik made himself smile. But he changed the subject quickly. "When do we learn about Xavier's specific assignment? Which individual is he expected to target first, as his 'in'?"

"We're finalizing a few things tonight," Landau said. "Double-checking our own intel. Should be able to give you more instructions tomorrow or the day after."

They were making sure Charles was going in with good information. That would keep him safe. Erik nodded, satisfied.

The man who had joked about Charles being ridden spoke again. "I still don't like relying on him this much. The guy's a pervert. How are you supposed to trust someone like that?"

"We trust a lot of difficult people in our work," Erik said. "Homosexuality is hardly the blackest perversion we've confronted."

"Exactly," Landau agreed. "This is a dirty business. We have to deal with some dirty people. Name of the game."

Once again, Erik forced himself to smile.

Afterward he stopped at a local market, bought a few basic foodstuffs to get him through some breakfasts. Bread, milk, eggs – and from a precarious pile in the produce section, a fresh pineapple. Once Erik was home, he managed to cut up the pineapple, and he ate the slices one by one, sitting in his new living room, listening to Atualfo Alves on the radio set. He left the lights off even as the sun went down. Soon only a faint violet-blue glow from the windows suffused the room, the color of twilight.

Erik was exhausted from his long journey, but he knew he would find it difficult to sleep. He couldn't stop wondering about Charles Xavier, about how he might be settling in, what he might be thinking. About how Charles' face would look if he could taste this pineapple.

If Erik fed it to him. If the juice collected at the corner of Charles' dark lips, and Erik leaned forward to lick it away …

Erik was not a homosexual. That wasn't possible. He had been married; he'd fathered a child. Everyone knew that, so no one doubted him. Nor did he seriously doubt himself. Charles Xavier affected him – got inside his head. That was all.

During the war, things had been different. Not like ordinary life. You crept up behind a scared young man and slit his throat, because he was working for the Vichy government and wouldn't have hesitated to call the authorities if he saw your team. You stepped over him as he bled out onto the floor; you didn't hear him trying to choke out words, didn't try to make out the names he called for in vain. You let that sort of thing go.

You forgot about sleeping in the same house every night. Forgot about having anything like a home. You carried a cyanide pill on you at all times. You decoded messages that described the horrific torture and execution of your comrades and friends, and forced yourself to consider how much of it you would be able to bear in their place – because, of course, you might be captured at any hour.

You laid explosive charges on railway tracks, knowing that civilians would also be on the train carrying food supplies to German troops, accepting their deaths as part of the price the world had to pay.

You parachuted out of airplanes still flying above safe altitudes because the damn pilot had been circling for more than an hour and you couldn't take the suspense any longer, because the chance of smashing your brain out was preferable to the terrible waiting.

You spent nights in ditches, in bombed-out ruins, in barns. You knew any moment might be your last. And so, sometimes during those long sleepless nights, you fucked the person with you because it was something the two of you could do to forget about the danger for a while. Sometimes that person was female, sometimes male. It didn't matter. It didn't count. War was not real life.

Maybe espionage was a different sort of war, but war all the same.

Erik knew a rationalization when he made one, but that didn't help him shake his thoughts about Charles.

Still, there was something about this that truly reminded him of his wartime experiences. Perhaps it was because he was back in the struggle of wrong versus right, black versus white. Erik had known the absolute rightness of his fight against the Nazis, the absolute wrongness of their regime – but that knowledge had freed him to commit murder countless times over. It was as if the surety of black and white had allowed him to walk unhesitatingly into the gray.

Right and wrong were just as clear now as they'd been before. The Nazis' aims hadn't changed; their methods had only altered insofar as they no longer had the immense power of the German state behind them. If they had their way, the crematoriums would be open for business again.

So Erik was justified in doing anything he could to defeat them – even if that meant sending Charles into danger, possibly to his death.

It seemed to him that Charles stood there in the heart of the gray, in a place beyond right or wrong.

The only place Erik could ever find him.


	4. Now It Can Be Told

 

"I can't get over it," Charles confessed as he and Erik walked alongside a stream in the Floresta de Tijuca. "The Brazilians actually planted a rain forest in the middle of their city."

Erik's grin was fierce enough to be genuine. "Largest urban rainforest in the world, they say."

"How many urban rainforests are there?" Charles laughed out loud – but mostly in delight. "It's beautiful. Spectacular."

"Glad you think so."

How could anyone think anything different? All around them the world bloomed green and gold; the earth smelled sweet, and the sunlight filtered down gently through tree leaves and ferns. After less than a day's sightseeing in Rio, Charles thought he might be in love with the place. He'd adored the Cinelândia Square area – and gone to see a poorly dubbed version of "The Blue Dahlia" last night, to get himself into the spirit of things. (Seeing Veronica Lake's face on the big screen again felt like coming home.) His apartment overlooked a busy area lit up with multicolored neon from various cinema fronts; it was a little like living above a rainbow. When he'd woken up, for a moment Charles hadn't remembered where he was – and when he did recall, it seemed to him that he'd forgotten _who_ he was.

No. Who he'd become during the past few months. The real person, the one Charles wanted to believe he'd always been, deep down – he was back in charge. No longer could he connect to the bitter drunkard he'd been so short a time ago in Miami.

Instead he was someone who met Erik Lehnsherr for a breakfast of excellent coffee and some sort of local pastry that was heavy and sticky-sweet but utterly delicious. Someone who spent the afternoon in a rain forest, driving between various vantage points of incredible beauty. Now, according to the guide, they were a very short distance from a spectacular vista – one he would take in with Erik by his side.

"You'd think there would be more tourists here," Charles said as he rolled up his sleeves. "This place is so spectacular."

"Remember, it's the dead of winter in Rio."

"Hardly dead." The weather was balmy enough that a faint sheen of sweat dampened Charles' forehead. "But I don't mind having the place to ourselves."

Erik glanced at him then – a glance that seemed to speak volumes – but Charles reminded himself, _You're reading too much into it._

"Almost there." Erik doffed his hat, then, and squinted into the sunlight beyond. "Come on, let's take a look."

As they walked from the thicker glade, the space above them shifting from green leaves to blue sky, Charles could finally see the view that lay in front of them. Virtually all of Rio seemed to stretch out beyond them – mountains in the distance, the bustle of the city almost as far away, and beneath them the long, shimmering curve of the water. He sucked in a breath, hardly able to believe anyplace could be so perfect.

"The beach looks dirtier up close," Erik said.

Typical. But Erik's dour mood only made Charles smile. "Don't we all?"

"I suppose we do. You and I in particular." Erik didn't meet his eyes. "We're in a dirty business. Maybe you're better suited for the work than I first thought."

That was more insult than compliment. The day's mood changed in an instant, darkening, becoming more intense. Charles stared down at the vista beneath them as his hands tightened around the railing. "So. To you I'm still trash."

"That's not what I said."

"Then why do I look so dirty up close?"

"Decent people don't carry on like that, do they?"

Charles knew Erik wasn't talking about the drinking – he'd quit, and even if he hadn't, it still would have been obvious what Erik truly meant. "Is it really the worst thing anyone could do? Preferring men to women?"

"No. Not the worst. Hardly compares to the war crimes we've seen."

"Oh, so I'm better than a Nazi. Barely. How flattering."

"You keep putting words in my mouth."

"Am I saying anything you're not thinking?" Charles knew he was overreacting, but he couldn't stand it. He'd thought he'd come so far with Erik – that he'd proved something about himself – and instead Erik had been quietly scorning him the entire time. It hurt worse than he would have dreamed, badly enough for him to realize he'd done the dumbest thing of all when it came to Erik Lehnsherr.

He'd let himself hope.

"Simmer down," Erik said.

"I think that's a bad idea, actually." Charles pushed his hair back from his face. By now he could hardly see the bay beneath him; he felt aware of nothing but Erik standing nearby. "I'll have to control my emotions a great deal during the next several weeks or months, however long I'm down here. So might as well let it out, don't you think? Let off some steam?"

"Careful, now." Something in Erik's voice sounded … dangerous. And yet it sent another rush of longing through Charles, traitorous and wild.

He turned toward Erik then. Turned _on_ him. "I'm worth something. Maybe I'm a queer, maybe I didn't defy Kurt Marko, but I'm still worth something. If I weren't you wouldn't have asked me to do any of this. So stop treating me like I'm garbage, like I'm something you can't wait to scrape off the bottom of your shoe."

"Shut up."

"Or what? My life's in your hands already, so what more do you need from – "

Erik's hands gripped Charles' shoulders, so quickly and so savagely that Charles imagined for one terrifying moment that Erik might be about to pitch him over the railing and down the cliff side. But no, that was ridiculous – the fear coursing through him was of another sort altogether, something both more tantalizing and more dangerous.

_Oh, God_ , Charles thought, glimpsing the truth only one instant before Erik kissed him.

The kiss was hard. Almost like a blow. And yet it tore down all Charles' defenses at once. When their mouths parted, Erik stared down at him as though Charles had been the one to do this. Erik's breaths came fast and shallow, a wild creature running from the hunt.

Charles understood. Other men had come to him like this – men who couldn't face what they were, what they wanted. They blamed you for it, as if you were a sort of poison that brought desire instead of death.

From Erik, for Erik, Charles would have endured that. But then Erik brought his hand to the side of Charles' face – a caress as tender as it was unexpected.

Charles turned his head to brush his lips against Erik's palm. Then he rested his hands against Erik's chest as he tilted his mouth up to invite another kiss.

This time, Erik's kiss was even fiercer than before, but a thousand times better. Charles wound his arms around Erik's neck and was rewarded with an embrace. Erik's chest rose and fell against his, betraying Erik's excitement – and surely Erik could feel the way Charles clung to him, the furious pounding of his heart.

"Don't you see, you stupid little fool?" Erik's breath was hot against Charles' throat. "I'm just as dirty as you are."

"Erik – "

"I understand you. I _know_ you."

"Yes. Yes, you know me."

Another kiss. Erik's hands pulling open Charles' jacket, his thigh pushing between Charles'. Everything else around them had become dangerous, as if clinging to each other was their only hope. The air felt thin, and the sun hot. Charles wondered how long he could continue to stand, or to breathe.

_At least we can stop standing._

"You like this," he whispered against Erik's parted lips.

"Yes."

"Would you like more than this?"

Erik hesitated, unsure. For one horrible moment Charles wondered if he'd pushed too far, too fast. But then Erik nodded.

Charles gentled his voice. "Come on."

He took Erik's hand and led him back toward the car. Charles' first thought was that they should drive back to his flat as quickly as humanly possible. Then he could lock the door behind them for hours on end. But the traffic in Rio snarled in every direction, and the last thing Charles wanted at this moment was to get stuck in a traffic jam.

Here, they'd parked in a shady spot – a glade that sheltered them from the brilliant sun. (Or from prying eyes, but they'd seen no one else for more than two hours.) The car had a broad backseat covered in smooth leather the color of cream.

Maybe this would be the only time. Maybe Erik would talk himself out of it the next morning – men did, sometimes. Charles was used to liaisons that brief. But he couldn't keep his famished heart from hoping that this could last longer. That it might be … more, though he had no words for what _more_ might be between them. All he knew was that Erik was here, next to him, wanting what he wanted, and Charles intended to seize every moment they could have.

Erik's hand remained tight around his as they went to the car; he allowed Charles to open the door and usher him into the back seat. But as soon as the door slammed shut, Erik was in charge again. He pushed Charles down onto the seat, covering Charles' body with his own. When their mouths met again, Charles closed his eyes and surrendered completely.

"Yes," he whispered as Erik's hand slid between Charles and the seat, the better to cup his ass. "Yes, please."

Erik responded by thrusting down against him, hard enough for Charles to feel that Erik was as turned on as he was. And Jesus Christ that cock of his – Charles had seen and sucked and fucked his fair share, but he didn't think he'd ever come across anyone as long and thick –

_I want him in me. But we can't here, we haven't anything to use and without it I swear to God he'd tear me in two._ By now Charles was nearly wild enough to accept even that.

Not quite, though. When Erik paused to pant for breath, Charles pushed them both back upright, then kissed the side of Erik's throat. "Hold still for me. All right?"

"Charles?"

"Hold still."

Erik's belt buckle was heavy in his palm; in his excitement his fingers fumbled as he slid the leather loose, then started working on Erik's fly. Strong hands gripped Charles' shoulders – not pushing Charles down, nor keeping him back. It was as though Erik wanted to steady himself.

_Oh, you think you're shaken up now? Just wait._ Charles smiled, hot and bright, as he finally took Erik's cock into his palm. Nothing was more perfect than Erik's face at that moment: lips parted, eyes desperate.

The car they'd hired was long and wide enough to allow plenty of room in the back seat. Room enough for Charles to sink to his knees on the floorboards, and angle himself between Erik's thighs. Erik's fingers twined in Charles' hair as Charles opened his mouth to take him in.

Charles groaned as he first tasted Erik, felt the thick velvety head against his tongue. He hadn't let himself dream about this – hadn't dared to – but now he was glad, because his fantasies would never have lived up to this. First he licked, mouthed, nuzzled, kissed, anything but sucking. For the past several days, just by being near, Erik had driven Charles half-crazy; Charles intended to return the favor. He luxuriated in the taste of salt, of the faint ridges of veins against his tongue. Erik wore too many clothes still for Charles to do much with his balls, but he slid a couple of fingers down to feel the taut swelling there.

"Fuck," Erik breathed. "Come on."

Charles managed to flick his tongue through his smile, then whispered, "Beg me."

"Please."

"Please what?"

"Dammit, you know what – "

"Not unless you beg me."

Erik's fingers clenched Charles' hair tighter, pulling it almost enough to hurt. "Please. Take it in your mouth," Erik breathed. "Suck me. _Hard_."

His wish was Charles' command.

So he got to work. First he sucked at the throbbing head – making Erik groan – but then Charles opened wider, inviting Erik to use his whole mouth, his throat. Erik responded immediately, rocking his hips forward to thrust deep. Charles gave into it willingly, even when Erik's grip on his head tightened. It was as though Erik owned him. As though he could use him completely. At the moment Charles could imagine nothing more intoxicating than being used.

Except …

Charles was already hard for Erik, so hard it ached. His erection strained against the fabric of his trousers, and he could bear it no longer. No chance Erik would return the favor. So Charles worked down his zipper, took his cock into his own palm, and started jerking himself off. Pre-come slicked his palm, even as Erik's pooled in his mouth, coated his tongue, and together it was enough to make him reel.

Erik cried out – a strangled, ragged cry – and he slumped back onto the seat. Not there yet, Charles realized, but close. He'd brought Erik to the brink, where he was too overcome to do anything, where he could only feel what Charles was doing to him. Time to let him feel it all.

Deeper, then – once, twice, letting Erik get so far into his throat that Charles had to struggle to keep breathing – before pulling back. Charles turned his attention to the sensitive head, sucking as hard as he could, teasing the ridge with his tongue until he could hear Erik start to gasp for breath –

Heat filled his mouth as Erik came. Even as Charles struggled to swallow it all, his hand tightened around his own cock as he rode the exhilarating rush of knowing he'd done this to Erik, that he'd made Erik go limp against the backseat as he panted and swore. When Erik's cock began to soften, and fell from between Charles' lips, Charles tried to hurry; if he brought himself over fast, right now, then he could turn his attention back to Erik again.

But Erik surprised him. His voice husky, he whispered, "Come here."

Erik's hands tightened around Charles' shoulders as he towed Charles up onto the seat with him. Now Charles straddled Erik, his thighs spread wide around Erik's legs, his red, swollen cock jutting from his boxers. He felt as though he could hardly breathe, even before Erik pulled him close and kissed him deep.

Some men hesitated before kissing a man who'd just had their cock in his mouth, who still tasted like their come. Not Erik. The way he kissed Charles – opening his lips, cradling him in his arms – it was the way Charles had always dreamed of being kissed.

Whatever puny defenses he'd ever had against Erik Lehnsherr were all crumbling in the flames.

Then Erik slid one hand down to wrap his fingers around Charles' cock. His grip was so tight – so sure – that Charles couldn't hold back a cry that was muffled against Erik's mouth.

Erik pulled back far enough to whisper, breath against Charles' wet lips, "Let it out. Scream if you want to."

Charles couldn't manage a scream. He didn't have enough breath for that. But he pumped into Erik's strong grip, giving in with abandon to the rush of feeling taking him over. Every heartbeat pushed him close, closer, closer again –

It swallowed him whole. He disappeared. Charles bit down onto Erik's shoulder, hard – and the muffled cry he made was echoed by Erik's.

As he held onto Erik, breathing hard, Charles felt himself trembling. Erik's arms closed around him almost tenderly, and for a few moments he could rest his face in the curve of Erik's neck. Feel Erik's heart beating fast against his chest. He could pretend this would last forever.

Of course it wouldn't. Charles knew better than that. But he no longer cared about the inevitable crash rising up to destroy him. For now, he surrendered to the descent. At a certain velocity, falling felt just like flight.

 

**

 

Erik didn't have to ask what this meant. You didn't ask questions like that in a war. You took every moment for what it was.

These moments with Charles were the sweetest he'd known in a very long time.

They'd kissed each other for so long in the car that Erik's lips were swollen and sore. Cleaned each other up, laughing abashedly the whole time. Driven back down into Rio with Charles snuggled at his side, and Erik's free hand resting on Charles' thigh. Now it was time to finally visit Charles' apartment.

"Look," Charles murmured as they walked onto the balcony side by side. "All the neon signs for the movie houses. They paint the entire night."

"Very nice." Erik did not care about neon. He leaned over to brush Charles' lips – a quick kiss, so that anyone who glimpsed two figures on a balcony would be unable to tell what they were doing.

"Mmm." Charles kissed him again, then stepped back a bit. Their hands remained tightly clasped. The way Charles smiled made him seem drunk – but sweeter, better than he'd ever looked while intoxicated. "You realize we've not eaten in seven hours."

He hadn't even felt the hunger. His body had better things to concentrate on. Erik squeezed Charles' hand. "Do you want me to take you out to dinner?"

"I'd rather we stayed in."

Erik leaned forward, daring yet another swift kiss. "We'll get hungry."

"I bought groceries." Charles kissed Erik's cheek, then, on tiptoe, his earlobe. "If I recognized anything, I put it in my basket."

"What does that leave us?"

"Hmm. A chicken. Potatoes. Fruit. Some kind of pastry. A cake, I think."

"Sounds like a good dinner," Erik murmured, brushing his lips along Charles' hairline.

Charles chuckled softly. "It would be if I knew how to cook. But I'll figure something out."

"Perfect. That way we can stay in."

"And as soon as we're done eating, you can take me into the bedroom and have me all night long."

The thought of it made Erik hard again, made him clutch Charles against his chest for one more kiss. But no sooner had he pressed his lips to Charles' than Charles pulled back with an open-mouthed smile on his face. Erik swore under his breath.

"Patience," Charles said, blue eyes dancing.

"You're one to talk about patience. You practically dragged me to the car."

"Oh, yes, you fought me so hard." Charles went on tiptoe, kissed Erik once on the cheek, then stepped back into his apartment.

Erik followed. For the first time, he took a good look at where Charles lived. As yet the apartment remained mostly impersonal, but after only 24 hours, Charles had already changed the place in a few subtle ways. His books were piled on every available table and shelf, and one of them – A STUDY OF HUMAN HEREDITY – was open on the breakfast table. The local English-language newspaper lay folded nearby. A small basket held bananas, guavas – and one pineapple. Erik had to smile.

From the refrigerator, Charles took out the chicken. Like all uncooked chickens, it looked pale and unpromising. Erik said, "You really don't know how to cook it?"

"How hard can it be? Put it in the oven, it turns brown – something like that." Charles laughed at his own ignorance.

Smiling, Erik said, "Don't suppose you thought to pack a cookbook."

"I would've if I'd owned one."

Charles looked back over his shoulder – half-abashed, half-flirtatious – and Erik leaned in for one more quick kiss. Tonight it seemed as though he couldn't kiss Charles enough. And later they would do so much more –

"This is a rather strange love affair," Charles murmured.

"Because we're both men." Erik did not phrase it as a question.

Yet Charles responded as though he had asked one. "No, that’s not it."

"What, then?"

"It's a strange love affair, because you don't love me."

Unspoken but understood were the words _but I love you._

Erik went very still, unsure what to say or do, until Charles surprised him by laughing. "I don't expect it. That's not what this is for you. And it's all right, don't you see?" Charles dropped a quick kiss on Erik's hand. "Maybe it's crazy to feel, after only a week – but never mind that. Whatever I can have with you, for however long, it's enough for me."

How could Erik argue with that? Yet it felt as though he should. Before Erik could think of what to say, though, the phone began to ring.

"Who on earth could that be?" Charles murmured.

"Must be for me." Erik had given Landau's men this number, both as a means of contacting Charles if necessary and as a possible backup for contacting Erik himself. "You should answer, though. Just in case."

Even as Charles reached for the phone, Erik wrapped his arms around his waist from behind. Charles leaned back against him, snuggling close as he said, "Hello?" After only a short pause, he held the receiver out to Erik. "For you."

Erik brushed two fingers down Charles' cheek as he took the phone in hand. "Hello?"

They wanted him to come in. Yes, immediately. Details about Charles' mission, top priority.

The last was what got Erik's attention. He might have stalled anything else they'd said; yes, this work was important, but it wasn't the sort of thing that got done in a day or a week or a year, and Erik very much wanted to stay with Charles for the next many hours. Yet if it was a matter of Charles' mission – Charles' safety – then he had to go.

He said as much to Charles, but was still met with protests. "I'm safe as houses," Charles breathed against Erik's neck. "Surely you could protect me until morning."

"They'd ask questions I'd rather not answer."

"Damned questions." With a sigh, Charles kissed Erik swiftly on the lips, then stepped away. "Very well, then. I shall fill the hours learning how to cook poultry. Go find out everything you can."

"And I'll tell you right away."

"The hell you will. You'll come back here, and eat what I'm certain will be the world's best chicken, and then drag me to bed and make violent love to me all night long." By now Charles' voice was hardly more than a whisper. "Time enough for hard facts in the morning, don't you think?"

The morning. When Erik would awaken by Charles' side.

He smiled at Charles and said, "That would be … perfection."

 

**

 

Forty-five minutes later, Erik sat in Landau's office, trying very hard not to be sick. He said the only thing he could say. "Are you certain, sir?"

Landau gave him a hard look. "Of course. Listen. This Sebastian Shaw – real name Klaus Schmidt, mind you – he's at the very heart of this Nazi cell. Its leader, if it has one. He may be married to the former Emma Frost, but our sources say Mrs. Shaw is nothing but a smokescreen. His tastes tend more toward men."

"That doesn't mean Charles could seduce him," Erik protested, knowing his objection to be weak.

"I don't imagine that sort is too picky, do you?" Landau lit a new cigarette. The cylinder of light from his lamp stretched across the darkened room like a barrier between them. "Anyway, it's more than a hunch. Apparently Shaw had quite a yen for young Mr. Xavier, back in the day. Made no secret about it, at least among those he could talk to about his – predilections. For whatever reason, Xavier didn't welcome his advances back then. We need him to change his tune."

Erik stared at the pack of cigarettes on Landau's table. He thought he'd kicked the craving long ago, but now he wanted one so badly his hand itched. "We don't know that Shaw will renew his attentions, even if he's given the opportunity."

"We don’t know that he won't. Besides, Xavier's young. He's handsome enough, and he's vulnerable. The type someone like Shaw would snap up in an instant."

True. Any man so inclined would want Charles, desperately.

The happy warmth that had bubbled within Erik all day had gone still and cool. His face seemed to have become a mask, one he could never take off.

Oblivious, Landau went on, "Xavier's our in. Our way to get at Sebastian Shaw and expose the entire Nazi cell." He grinned, as casual with Charles' life as he was with the ashes of his cigarette. "All we have to do is bait the hook."


	5. Ill Wind

Cooking chicken proved to be more difficult than Charles had thought. He looked down ruefully at the half-raw, half-blackened bird in its dish, then shook his head and put it in the refrigerator to keep until he could toss it out the next day.

No matter. He'd managed to bake some potatoes, plus they had cake and fruit, and anyway it wouldn't have mattered if they could only eat bread and water. Erik was coming back to spend the night; the rest, Charles decided, was irrelevant.

Smiling, he stepped back onto his balcony to look down at the brilliant neon below. A warm breeze ruffled his hair, and Charles closed his eyes to better listen to the distant sounds of the city. So like Miami, with the heat and the buzz of so many people – and yet another world entirely. Miami, and the man he'd been there, had already begun to fade for Charles. None of that was important, compared to where he was now, who he was, and who he was with. It seemed to him that Rio de Janeiro was a place of rare magic.

Then he heard the key in the lock – Erik was the only other person who had one – and Charles hurried back inside.

"There you are." He hugged Erik and kissed him on the cheek; Erik's hands only brushed against his shoulders, briefly, but no doubt he was hungry. Charles pulled back, laughing. "I'm afraid the chicken didn't fare well. Hope you like potatoes."

"We should talk."

Charles' smile faded as he really saw Erik's face. All the pleasure that had been there earlier had vanished. Erik looked sterner than he had that first morning, when he'd given Charles an Alka-Seltzer and a more interesting way to die. Quietly he said, "Is my assignment that bad?"

"Depends on what you mean by bad."

That could signify many things – none of them good. Charles sat down at the kitchen table, to brace himself. "All right. Tell me."

"Do you remember a man named Sebastian Shaw?"

Unwelcome memories flooded back, of a time Charles would rather have forgotten, and a man he'd thought he'd never have to meet again. "Yes. He worked on a project with Marko just before the war. During the war, I mean, for Europe, but before Pearl Harbor. I didn't know any of the details then – but now I assume the project was only cover."

"You didn't know Shaw was a Nazi?"

"I knew he was an anti-Semite and a son of a bitch. He spoke highly of the Nazis, but he wasn't the only one, back then. People were so stupid." Charles took a deep breath. "But no, I didn't guess he actually worked for the Germans."

"More than that – he _was_ German. His real name is Klaus Schmidt, and he joined the party not long after Hitler himself. But we'll call him Shaw, for simplicity's sake. He used that name when he came to the Americas in the late 1930s, to cultivate intelligence sources for the Reich. Shaw spent the entire war on this side of the Atlantic, which made it relatively simple for him to escape to Brazil after V-E Day."

"He's here now? In Rio?"

Erik nodded.

Shaw had wanted Charles, once. At the time, Charles had been far less experienced sexually, and less able to handle unwanted attention – particularly in a situation where he could never openly acknowledge to anyone else what was going on. He'd forced himself to keep a smile on his face during family dinners while Kurt told nasty jokes about Negroes, Mother got drunk, Raven sat in silence at the far end of the table, and Shaw's hand brushed along Charles' thigh. Thank God his bedroom door had had a lock. Otherwise, Charles didn't think he could have slept through a single night before Shaw had moved away.

"I don't know how much more I can tell you about him," Charles said. "But I'll try my best."

"We don't need you for intel. We need you for infiltration. Our sources say that you have an in with Sebastian Shaw. That you … held a particular appeal for him."

"I – yes, he came onto me. Tried to get me alone. I managed to dodge him, though."

Erik looked him straight in the eye as he said, flatly, "Your assignment is to stop dodging."

The reality took a few moments to unfold within Charles' mind, its dimensions expanding second by second as Charles stared at Erik. Only this afternoon they'd been wrapped around each other, kissing until they could hardly breathe. Now Erik was – whoring him out.

For secrets. Not for money. But Charles knew he was a whore just the same.

"You want me to seduce Sebastian Shaw." The words came out evenly; at least he'd managed that much.

Erik nodded, still devastatingly calm. "Get him into your bed. Better yet, get into his. Make him happy. Make him sloppy. And report all that pillow talk back to me."

"Because you're my handler." Charles had learned a bit of the lingo on the way down. Erik had taught him some of the most important terms that night they'd strolled together through the streets of Belem. "And I'm your – "

"Asset," Erik finished for him. How he wanted Erik to say something more – but the rest was silence.

Charles rose to his feet and walked out on the balcony again. Bracing his hands against the rail, he stared down at the lights of Cinelândia Square. The blur of color meant nothing to him, but this way Erik would not see his face as he spoke. "Whose plan was this? Yours?"

"Hadn't heard about it until tonight."

The feeling in Charles' chest now wasn't hope, merely the sad echo of it, the evidence left behind. "I don’t suppose you raised any objections. Said that I wouldn't do it, or that I shouldn't be made to."

"Of course you'd do it. Remember, I watched you for some time before I approached you. Listened to the recordings from your house. So I'm well aware you've never been very particular about the men you slept with. No point in starting now."

"Because I'll sleep with anything that moves. As long as it's male, that is. Or Veronica Lake." Charles laughed, but it sounded brittle and false. No matter. Erik would know it for a lie anyway. "In Miami you told me I wasn't a good candidate for this work, because I was a fairy and a drunk. Turns out you needed a fairy after all."

"Yes, you're more qualified than I thought."

Qualified to go to bed with a man he had never been attracted to – a man whose character and philosophy repelled him on every level – for as long as these mysterious intelligence agents thought necessary. How long would that be? Weeks? Months? Charles had never wanted to so much as kiss Sebastian Shaw, but now he would have to become the man's lover.

And he was being handed to Shaw on a platter, by the very man he had thought might be different from all the rest.

After a deep breath, Charles could say, "I would have thought today – changed things."

Erik's voice turned as sharp as a switchblade. "I threw my wife and child on the pyre to destroy the Nazis. Did you think I wouldn't throw you too?"

Charles shook his head no. Maybe it should have helped, to remember how far Erik would go. It didn't.

"At least you're not a drunk any longer." As coolly as Erik said it, this was the closest he'd come to saying anything kind during the entire conversation.

So it was necessary to throw it back in his face, hard.

"No point in getting particular now. Isn't that what you just said? At the moment, I could do with a martini or two. Or five." Charles had said it only to be cutting, but now that he'd spoken, he wanted nothing more than the oblivion of alcohol. Only several stiff drinks could possibly erase the hurt of this moment. "No doubt Sebastian will want to buy me a few drinks. I think I'll let him."

"Sounds about right," Erik said. "People don't change that much. Not really."

"I guess they don't."

The scraping of Erik's chair against the floor made Charles look back over his shoulder. Would Erik come to stand beside him? By now he knew how little he had meant to Erik – but maybe Erik would at least acknowledge what had happened between them. How much more might have happened, had his assignment come through only twenty-four hours later.

Instead, Erik walked toward the door. "No doubt you'd like to hit the bars tonight," he said as he took his hat in hand. "But restrain yourself if you can. Tomorrow morning, I'll pick you up at 9 a.m. to go horseback riding. Word has it Shaw's a regular at the local riding club."

"Yes." By now Charles could hardly get the words out. "Shaw was kinder to horses than he ever was to humans."

"Then like as not you'll be reunited with him in the morning. So get your beauty sleep. We need you looking your best."

_Like the whore I am._

"Don't worry," Charles drawled, in much the same careless way he would have spoken to Moira or Janos back in Florida. "Never been a man I couldn’t convince, given time. I'm very talented at seduction. Wouldn’t you say?"

Erik's gaze darkened at the reminder of what they'd done – which apparently was a subject that would never be raised again. For a moment, Charles thought he'd actually punctured Erik's calm, that Erik might say something angry, or hurt. He would welcome anything so long as it was true.

Instead Erik bowed his head slightly. "The agency was right. You're the man for the job." Then he walked out. 

As the door shut, Charles' knees seemed to give way beneath him. He caught himself against the wall. Erik's coldness had scoured him raw, beyond anger or tears. Instead Charles felt emptied out. Used up.

 _I'm worth something_ , he had said this morning, just before Erik kissed him.

But he was. He _was_ worth something. Charles hadn't regained his pride by falling for Erik; that had come when he took on an intelligence assignment. No, he hadn't imagined that could possibly obligate him to join Sebastian Shaw in bed … but that was the job.

He had wanted a chance to redeem himself. What a fool he'd been, to think a soul could be bought back for cheap.

So Erik was lost to him. Just like everything else, except the hope of redemption. So Charles would pay the price, do whatever it took, to regain his honor.

But he'd be damned if he'd do it without a fucking drink. 

 

**

 

It was Erik who went to a bar that night, Erik who belted down two martinis, then a third, trying to numb himself. The ache went too deep for such remedies. Charles had sunk into his blood, his brain, the very marrow of his bones.

 _You've left yourself vulnerable_ , Erik thought, over his fourth martini. He ought to have gone out for more late nights with friends to pick up cheap girls in bars – or late nights alone, to pick up cheap boys in different sorts of establishments. He ought to have paid for it, even. If he'd set up a standing arrangement with some kind of escort, then he would have gotten off on a regular basis. Would never have become … hungry.

Hunger meant vulnerability. After only a few days, a few smiles, and one afternoon in the back seat of a car, Charles already had power over Erik. He'd spent most of the last decade trying not to let anyone have power over him again, and yet he'd given it up to Charles in an instant.

This assignment had saved Erik, really. He tried to think of it like that.

But the martinis didn't do their job. No matter how blurry his vision became, or how unsteady his feet, Erik couldn't stop seeing Charles as he had looked earlier that night – first as they kissed on the balcony, glowing with anticipation of a long night of love, and then as Erik had told him about Shaw, and the light in Charles' blue eyes had seemed to go out.

One thing to use a man, even to sacrifice him. Another to wound his soul.

Somehow Erik made it back to his apartment. He was at the worst stage of drunkenness, when he was too tired and sloppy to do anything that might cause him pleasure, but too buzzed to actually sleep. So he sat in the place's one armchair and stared out the window. His view of Rio was not nearly so bright as Charles'; he seemed to face another city entirely.

All the while, he berated himself, and defended himself, an inner argument that stretched into the wee hours. _You didn't even try to argue with Landau, to get Charles another assignment._ No point to that. Obviously Charles' connection to Shaw was the ideal in, one that should be exploited immediately. _He's going to start drinking again._ That was on Charles. If he was weak enough to be knocked off the wagon by the first big crisis, then he'd never have stayed sober in the long run.

_He was in love with you._

Not Erik's responsibility.

Besides, what was the point of that, two men being in love? Nor did Erik intend to fall in love with anyone, male or female, ever again. Magda had loved him, and she had died for it; the only way to make that story worse would be to continue it with someone else.

_Charles will have to go to bed with that man._

Images writhed within Erik's skull, the memories of Charles' kisses twisted so that an evil, anonymous shadow had taken Erik's place. But what did that matter, really? Erik had never been called upon to seduce anyone for the sake of the resistance, but if he had been, he knew he would have complied with no hesitation, regardless of the gender, character or attractiveness of his target. Charles had taken the assignment knowing he might die. Fucking around with someone wasn't as bad as death, so Charles ought to be braced for that too.

He hadn't been, though.

At least Erik had kept his nerve. He'd spoken cruelly. Shown no sympathy. Made it harsh. Made Charles feel even lower than he had the day Erik found him. Erik had stood only inches away from the man he'd made love to all day, looked right into those blue eyes, and spoken each word like it was a knife to Charles' heart.

Savagery was kindness. Charles couldn't be allowed to hope. Erik had spent enough time thinking about Magda's end to know – better a quick death than a slow one.

 

**

 

As part of his proper English boyhood, Charles had of course learned to ride at an early age. He'd been good at it, too, jumping hedges and creeks on his Arabian so easily it seemed that they could both fly. The Arabian – a glorious mare he'd called Spark – had been sold along with the family estate when Kurt Marko dragged them all to the United States. Charles had not ridden since.

Yet when he slung his leg over his mount at the riding club, he found that his body remembered better than his brain. Within moments he felt secure in his seat, confident with the reins.

"You hardly need me here," Erik said.

Charles profoundly wished Erik had not accompanied him. At first he'd entertained some hope that Erik would be a terrible rider, that he might fall on his ass in the mud and so soothe Charles' wounded pride. But of course the man sat so easily in the saddle he might as well have been a centaur. His tailored riding breeches showed the lines of his muscular thighs; Charles vividly remembered kneeling between them, feeling the tension of those muscles beneath his palms.

 _Forget,_ he told himself. _You have to forget._ He smiled as carelessly as he could manage. "Feel free to leave me behind, Erik. I'll get the job done."

"No doubt. But I provide context. Besides, we need to establish that we're friends."

 _Is that what we are now?_ Charles left it unsaid. Time to begin.

He'd chosen another mare in honor of Spark, this one chestnut-colored. Erik, of course, had picked the blackest horse in the stables. They rode side by side on a smooth dirt track, as if Erik were his shadow. The sounds of stirrups and bridle, leather and metal and hoofbeats, reminded Charles of being young, foolish and happy. He used that to brighten his smile.

This imitation of happiness stayed on his face even after he saw the figures riding ahead. Even from the set of the man's shoulders, he knew.

Charles murmured, "That's Sebastian, on the grey."

"You're sure?" Erik might have been remarking on the good weather.

"Positive. Who's the blonde goddess with him?"

"His wife, the former Emma Frost. Ornamental, they say."

"No doubt," Charles said. Sebastian had always been able to charm women, which deflected attention from his real preferences. "Do you think she knows what he really is?"

"You'll have to tell us. Come on, let's ride ahead. Give him a chance to see you."

Charles gently urged the mare forward; she responded beautifully, more like a racer than a horse for hire at a riding club's stables. If only he were still rich, and could buy her to ride every day. He liked the thought, the two of them galloping toward the horizon, away from all of this, never looking back.

Instead, he smoothly rode past Sebastian and Emma. Charles stared straight ahead the whole while. He didn't need to see them; they needed to see him.

Although Erik's mount didn't answer him as easily as Charles' did, Erik nonetheless caught up until he was only a few paces back. "He didn't recognize you," Erik murmured.

"Are you sure?" Charles said lightly. "Maybe he's just not interested any longer. Men do that, you know. They put aside their playthings and move on."

"Let's test that theory."  

Charles' horse startled under him, rearing so that he had to clutch at the reins, then bolted forward. Realization swept in along with the panic – _Erik spurred her!_ Damned cheap trick. He managed to keep the horse under control, gradually slowing her pace, but in a moment another rider came alongside to help.

It was surprising, how easy it was to pretend not to know Sebastian at first.

"Thank you." Charles flashed his best, most boyish smile. "I don't know what got into the girl – wait. Aren't you –"

"Charles Xavier." Sebastian stared, then laughed out loud. "What in the world are you doing here?"

"Playing tennis. Can't you tell?"  That earned him a laugh. Charles continued, "You mean why am I in Brazil, I suppose. Well, after the war – after what happened to Kurt – I couldn't get out of the States fast enough."

"I understand completely." Sebastian patted Charles' shoulder, a gesture that could have been merely friendly. "And are you here alone? Did your sister come to Brazil with you, or – that gentleman back there – "

"Oh, Mr. Lehnsherr. I met him on the plane from Belem. Airplane executive, dull as dirt, but it's not as if I knew anyone else in town. Raven stayed behind in America for now, to finish her studies at the women's college, so you see – I've been here on my own." He leaned forward – just enough to be conspiratorial, not enough for Sebastian to be overly encouraged. "How lucky to run into an old friend."

"The good fortune is mine." Sebastian held out his hand as Emma rode up on horse so shining white it almost shimmered in the sun. "May I introduce my wife, Emma? Emma, my dear, this is Charles Xavier. The stepson of Kurt Marko."

Emma's china-doll face softened into sympathy Charles could almost have believed was real. "I'm so sorry for your loss, Mr. Xavier."

"I appreciate that. But at least he was able to choose his own end, instead of giving the authorities the satisfaction." That was the part that bothered Charles the most. "And call me Charles, please. I hope we'll all spend much more time together now that I'm here in Rio."

By now Sebastian was grinning. "You can rely on it."

Charles glanced to the side, to see that Erik was riding toward them, but slowly. Of course he was giving Charles time to ingratiate himself with Sebastian, but it was hard not to think of the horse's slow pace as evidence of how little Erik cared about Charles' safety.

But the truth was worse. Erik cared … a little. Just not as much as Charles, and not enough to spare him this duty. To Erik, Charles was fuel for the fire, a tool to be used. Everything else they had been, or might have become, was irrelevant now. The sooner Charles accepted that, the better off he would be.

If he wanted to cry about it some more, and he did, by God he would wait until later. For now, Charles had a job to do.

 _Emma knew who Kurt Marko was, and knew what had become of him even though he died only a couple days ago. Therefore Emma is aware of Sebastian's Nazi leanings if not actually involved herself._ Charles felt good about that conclusion; he knew it to be the first real piece of intel he'd gleaned.

His work as a spy had begun.


	6. Between The Devil & The Deep Blue Sea

Charles paused across the street from the Copacabana Palace – a hotel so stately it might have been a tropical version of the grand home his family had owned in upstate New York, once upon a time. His hand went to his throat, double-checking his bow tie.

It had been a while since he'd worn an evening suit this grand, longer since he'd carried himself as a wealthy, carefree young man – bookish and unworldly – sure of his welcome. The distance between who had been and who he had to become stretched out before him, and for a moment he felt as though he were too weary to walk another step.  

 _That's fine,_ he told himself. _Some sadness should come through. He'll think it's for Marko._

But that wasn't why he hesitated. Down deep, Charles realized, he still hoped Erik might stop him. That he'd promise to find another mission, another way to infiltrate the Nazi cell, that Charles' wasn't to endanger himself or give himself to Sebastian, not when Charles belonged to Erik …

 _Haven't you spent enough time being a fool?_ Charles breathed in sharply, then entered the hotel.

The maître-d explained that Mr. Shaw had reserved a private table, which made Charles wonder how much of the masquerade he'd be forced to play out tonight. To his relief, the private table was merely one set in an alcove, partly surrounded by glass-and-wood panels. Sebastian rose from his seat as Charles approached, much as he would have done for a lady.

General chit-chat about the restaurant menu and Rio neighborhoods stalled them for a while – but not long. "How extraordinary," Sebastian said. "That I should run into you here."

 _Does he suspect me?_ Charles' instinct told him he was safe, that Sebastian was congratulating himself on this stroke of luck. He answered carefully nonetheless. "Isn't it? But last night, I thought about it and – you know, it's not that surprising, really. We both wanted to get as far away from the United States as possible. And I suppose we share the same tastes. The same idea of what constitutes the good life." Charles lowered his eyes for a moment before bringing them back up to meet Sebastian's gaze. "So I suppose we might have similar ideas about – about what the future should look like."

Sebastian nodded, then gestured to the waiter to pour them more champagne. "Right now it seems as if the entire world has derailed, doesn't it? Just on the verge of true order – true glory – and now the US and the Soviet Union are counting the days until they can start another war, kill yet more people."

"The entire world hasn't derailed," Charles said. "Rio still seems to be all right. No – perfect. It seems perfect."

The misdirection worked. Charles hadn't been forced to elegize the Third Reich in words that would've sounded stilted and false, yet Sebastian took his agreement for granted. "We have a chance to make an entirely new world, here. May I say that I'm glad you're going to be a part of it?"

"Thank you. This is the last place I expected to find an old friend. Lately … it's felt as though fair-weather friends were the only kind I had."

"Of course not. I've always valued you, Charles. In every way." Sebastian rested his hand on Charles' wrist, but only for a moment. "However, I don't think you always welcomed my attention."

Chuckling softly, Charles raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if embarrassed. "Please, don't remind me what a little boy I was then. I was – inexperienced, and shy, and you were so sophisticated. So worldly. More than a little bit intimidating, if you want to know the truth."

Sebastian's smile broadened with genuine pleasure. "And now?"

"Now? You're still sophisticated, and intimidating as hell. But I find myself wondering whether, maybe –" Charles let his voice trail off as he studied Sebastian's face, as raptly as he would have looked at a man he actually desired. "—whether I might be able to catch up."

With impeccable timing, the waiter delivered their soup course. Charles decided that was for the best. A moment to cool down, a chance to pace this conversation more carefully: That was what he needed. No point in making this seem too easy, he thought, which would surely make Sebastian wonder if their encounter hadn't been orchestrated after all –

_Stop lying to yourself. You're trying to stretch this out, so maybe there will be a delay, or Sebastian will get caught on his own, or Erik will come to me and say it doesn't have to happen._

Fat chance.

He settled for the next best thing, a sip of champagne.

Surreptitiously, through the soup course, Charles studied Sebastian more closely. By any objective standard, Sebastian Shaw was an attractive man. Angular jaw – a narrow face that showed his high cheekbones to advantage – a trim, athletic figure that defied his years– chestnut hair greying only at the temples – eyes nearly as vividly blue as Charles' own: These were all points in Sebastian's favor. Yet Charles sensed the man wouldn't have been his "type" even without his loathsome political beliefs, or his willingness to prey on the weak.

If not for his youthful vulnerability, Charles knew, Sebastian wouldn't have targeted him in the first place. He could come across as more adult now, more independent – but if he hadn't seemed to be alone, Charles suspected he might have lost his appeal for Sebastian altogether.

This time, Charles had the weight of the U.S. intelligence community behind him, but he felt lonelier than ever. Sebastian would sense that. Good.

"I seem to recall," Sebastian said, "that you and your sister liked going out on the ocean, in Florida."

"We did. I mean, we do." Charles didn't compare to the truly avid water-skiers or swimmers of Miami, but the beach was one of the few things about that city he'd genuinely liked.

That slow smile returned to Sebastian's face. "Well, then. I have a treat for you."

Charles took another sip of champagne, to brace himself. "What would that be?"

"I own a sailboat. A good size, easy for one person to handle, but still comfortable – with a little cabin down below, for privacy."

"Sounds charming."

"I'd love to show it to you. This Saturday, perhaps?"

Day after tomorrow. Sebastian wanted to take him out on the water, far away from any potential way out, and fuck him. This was precisely the opportunity Charles had been angling for, and yet he could not bring himself to say yes.

He could make love to Sebastian Shaw. Part of what Erik had said had been hurtful precisely because it was true: Charles _hadn't_ been very particular about his lovers lately. Few of them had been as objectively handsome as Shaw, and virtually none had cared about impressing him with anything other than the size of his dick. If there had been no more to the assignment than this – as much as Charles loathed Sebastian Shaw, he could have fucked him for the cause and walked away unscathed.

But there had been more to this assignment from the very beginning, from the moment he'd first looked up to see Erik across a crowded room.

"Your plan sounds – perfect," Charles said. "I had an appointment, though, one I'd have to move. May I phone you tomorrow to confirm?"

Sebastian wasn't put off. Instead, he laughed softly. "Playing hard to get?"

"… you'll have to see, won't you?"

"Then call me tomorrow and let me know the next steps in the chase."

As though this were seduction; as if this were fun. Charles lifted his glass for the waiter to pour more champagne. He needed it.

 

**

 

Erik sat on a park bench near Cinelândia Square, pretending to be highly interested in the morning edition of _O Globo._ Yet his senses, trained by years of intelligence work, focused on anything but the paper in his hands. His eyes noticed every person in his vicinity, checked whether they had taken note of him, and scoured every window, corner or shadow where a sniper might have taken cover. These habits had served him well during the many years when he could have expected to be captured or killed at any moment; they made him a good intelligence operative now.

Yet there was nothing professional about the way he felt inside when he saw Charles walking toward him.

One side of Erik's brain did the calculations: Charles looked exhausted, but was dressed well, and wore the dark-blue tie that meant he felt a meet was important. Everything else within Erik responded stupidly, irrationally – a surge of hope and pleasure, immediately tamped down by the remembrance of what they had to do.

Erik folded his newspaper across his knee, indicating that the meet was safe. Within a few moments, Charles had come to sit on the park bench like any other tired city dweller. They didn’t look directly at one another, but even at this angle – "You haven't shaved," Erik murmured.

"I overslept. Had to rush out the door."

"Out late?"

Charles' eyes darted toward him, remonstrance for Erik's light tone. "Yes. Sebastian Shaw took me to dinner. Five courses, each of them rather rich. I was up until two with a glass of Alka-Seltzer."

Only dinner. Erik wished he hadn't felt relieved. "So, you've told me how you felt about the food. How did it go, really?"

"It was productive. Shaw suspects nothing; I'm sure of that. He's egotistical enough to believe I'm interested in him for his sake alone, and opportunist enough that the thought of a young man on his own in an unfamiliar city – well, for Sebastian, that's practically an aphrodisiac."

"So. Won't take you long to be invited to Shaw's parties. To meet his friends. Good work, Xavier."

This was the implied end of the interview; instead, Charles remained where he was, staring down at his hands in his lap. One of his thumbs rubbed at a knuckle, perhaps remembering where a scrape had been. "Not long at all, it seems. Shaw has – he's asked me out on his sailboat tomorrow. Just the two of us, on Guanabara Bay, alone for hours. He hasn't said anything outright, but he doesn't have to. Just keeps talking about his private cabin, and the wine he'll have on board."

Erik's mouth felt strangely dry. "What did you tell him?"

"I said I'd need to check my calendar. That I'd get back to him today. What – " Charles' voice cracked, and his hands went still in his lap. "What should I tell him?"

 _No. Tell him no. Because you're not his, you're_ mine, _and he can't have you, not for a few hours, not for one minute –_

"No point in being coy," Erik said. "Call him back, tell him yes, and pick out your best boating clothes. Maybe that linen getup you wore that first morning in Miami. The navy blue brought out your eyes."

Charles sucked in a sharp breath. He looked over at Erik, his expression the same kind of pained shock Erik had seen on soldiers' faces after he'd shot them. Yet his voice remained even as he replied, "I'll call him at lunchtime."

"I'll let headquarters know you're making progress."

"And afterward?" By now Charles had turned his head away, though not so far that Erik couldn't see the edges of Charles' stiff smile. "We'll meet here and I'll tell you every detail?"

"I imagine I can fill in the details for myself at this point. A yes or no will do."

Charles nodded. Without another word he rose and walked away across the square, never looking back. Erik continued looking at the paper a while longer, and though he was conversant in Portuguese, he did not take in one word in front of his eyes. Perhaps ten minutes later, he went in the nearest department store with a bathroom, vomited quietly in a stall, rinsed his mouth at the sink and went to headquarters, where they could all congratulate themselves on how well things were going.

 

**

 

That day on the sailboat reminded Charles that in Rio, May was part of winter. Of course air always cooled over water; even back in Miami summers, he'd often brought along a jacket in case they stayed out on the boat until evening. But today, as he stood on the deck of Sebastian Shaw's sailboat, Charles hugged himself and shivered as he looked out at the sparkling water. All the sunlight in the world couldn't warm him.

"You're freezing!" Shaw called over the sound of rushing water. "Here, wear this!"

Charles managed to catch the bundle lobbed at him, which turned out to be a thick woolen sweater, dark brown and so pleasantly scratchy that he found himself remembering a boyhood trip to Scotland. His father had held his hand as they walked along the River Ness. For a moment Charles allowed himself to be bewitched by the memory – an experience of happiness so unsullied and perfect he could hardly believe, now, that it had been real.

At least Shaw was considerate. That boded well, Charles supposed.

Shaw wore a yachtsman's outfit so stereotypical that it could have been laughable, had the clothes not been so well made, nor fit him so perfectly. Navy blazer, white cap, a jaunty scarf tied around his neck – he was the portrait of a rich, carefree man. The rich part was true, at any rate.

 _If you didn't know what Shaw truly was_ , Charles told himself, _if you'd only met him one night at a party and he'd invited you out, you'd probably be happy about being with him today. No, he's not the sort you're usually drawn to, but he provides a pleasant time and isn't the type to turn on you after._

_Unlike some others._

None of that changed anything. Erik – obstinate, angry Erik who hated himself for wanting Charles, maybe for wanting anyone – it didn't matter how cold he'd been. How futile it all was. Despite everything, Charles still wanted him.

How long would it take for that hope to die? He hadn't even known Erik Lehnsherr for two weeks. Would Charles yearn for him longer than that?

 _Yes_ , whispered a voice inside his head that dearly needed to shut up.

Well, Charles knew how to silence such voices. "I suppose you brought the promised libations?"

Shaw gestured to the cabin below. "Everything you could want!"

Charles had resisted stepping below decks after the first swift tour. But what was the point of avoiding it? He knew what was expected of him, knew where it would happen, and if some anesthetic was available, so much the better.

So he braced himself against the sides of the narrow steps that led below. Shaw's cabin measured no more than steps across in any direction, but the space held both a battened-down wet bar and a bunk. Wine wouldn't cut it, not today. Charles grabbed the first bottle of harder stuff he saw – vodka, not a favorite – and poured it amply into a glass. What could he cut it with? Pineapple juice? That would do.

The alcohol burned his throat and his belly with welcome fire. Charles had eaten little during the past thirty-six hours, so he became lightheaded after only a couple of swallows. Good. That was good. Why had he resisted before? Why had he only sipped champagne at dinner with Sebastian the other night? Yes, he'd need his head about him for the more sophisticated part of his intelligence work, but for today – for today, sobriety could only get in the way.

He'd managed to down the entire contents of the metal cup before Sebastian's steps came thumping down toward him. Charles had a smile prepared by the time he appeared. "Find what you wanted?"

"Pineapple juice – plus a little kick, I admit." _Yes, shy, act shy. Shaw will like that, and shyness would explain why you hold back, if you have to at any point._

"Come now, Charles. You're no longer a schoolboy who can't drink in front of his stepfather." Shaw took off his cap, tossing it aside lightly. No doubt the blazer would soon follow.

"I still feel like a schoolboy, sometimes," Charles murmured, remaining where he was while Shaw stepped closer. "Around you."

"I can tell. And I find it delightful."

Shaw's hand curved along Charles' jawline. The waves rocked them slightly, so that the floor was not constant beneath Charles' feet. When Shaw's thumb traced along Charles' lips, he knew to open his mouth and lick.

That was the only initiative he took, that entire afternoon. Otherwise, Charles allowed Sebastian to guide him completely. It was Sebastian who pulled off the warm sweater, then removed the rest of Charles' clothes almost tenderly. Who opened his mouth for Charles first, before asking Charles to reciprocate. Who asked if Charles was willing to be fucked, because if he didn't want to so soon, that was all right –

 _He really does think of me as an innocent._ Charles wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yes," he whispered. "If you want me, yes."

Ironically, Sebastian was a more considerate lover than most of those Charles had known before. And it meant nothing. All the caresses and kisses and coy requests for permission were only Shaw's way of flattering himself – the lines he'd written for the older man taking charge of a young, malleable boy. The velvet in which he cloaked his desire to own Charles completely.

And Erik – for all his roughness, all his coldness, and all the games they now played – in that one perfect hour in the car, Erik had been more open with Charles, more honest and vulnerable, than anyone else had ever been. It didn't matter how many vicious words he threw at Charles now, because he stood for the right things, and fought for them with all he had. Even at his worst, Erik had a kind of purity that shone all the brighter against Shaw's corruption.

 _I don't care about fucking him_ , Charles thought to the Erik in his head. _What hurts is that you_ don't _care, not at all –_

Sebastian whispered, "Bring your knees up for me."

Charles did so, and smiled.

 

**

 

Two days later, Charles put on a blue necktie and walked through Cinelândia Square. Erik seemed absorbed in his newspaper for long moments after Charles sat beside him.

Finally, Erik spoke. "Well?"

"Tell your superiors that they can add Sebastian Shaw's name to my – list of playmates."

Some small, ugly satisfaction was to be had in the way Erik's fingers tightened around the newspaper he held, but Erik's face remained impassive. "You work fast."

"You ought to know."

"Skip it."

Charles hugged himself, though the day was mild. It was as if he could still feel the cold ocean air whipping around him. "Shaw made a suggestion I thought I should run by your team."

"I'm not sure I want to hear much about Shaw's 'suggestions' to you."

That was jealousy, wasn't it, deep beneath the ice? Charles almost wished it weren't. His stupid, irrational hope fed on whatever puny fuel it could seize. Nothing changed what he had to do. "He asked me to dinner Tuesday night. To 'meet his friends'."

"Think he means the polo club? Or something more useful?"

"I can't be sure, but – Sebastian's always been one to mix business and pleasure."

Erik nodded. "Tuesday night, then. You and I should arrange to meet shortly afterward. Not here. Now that you’re well and truly mixed up with Shaw, we can't afford to have all our meets in the same place."

"He also mentioned taking me to the racetrack Thursday afternoon. Maybe you should come too. Easy enough for two acquaintances to cross paths there, don't you think? We can even use binoculars to find each other without anyone being the wiser."

Charles thought that was a neat bit of strategy, but whatever pleasure he took in it faded as Erik's expression hardened. "I think you like this job."

Would it ever stop feeling like a slap in the face? He must be flushing hot, as flustered as a child, but answered in almost a sing-song. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

After a long pause, Erik said, "As long as you're all right."

"—Erik—"

"He didn't force you. He didn't hurt you."

Unable to speak, Charles simply shook his head no.

"Then the rest doesn't matter."

The split second of kindness somehow hurt more than all the cruelty. It proved that what Charles had lost hadn't been entirely an illusion.

"Thursday," Erik said, and he walked away without so much as a goodbye.

It was good spycraft, apparently, to remain on the park bench alone for a while, to reduce the chances of any observer realizing they'd come specifically to meet each other. At the moment, Charles wasn't sure his knees would have supported him anyway; he needed to pull himself together. So he hugged himself tighter as he looked up at his apartment, and tried to imagine two people standing on the balcony, kissing every few seconds because they could not bear to stop.


	7. Do Nothing 'Til You Hear From Me

"Mrs. Shaw – "

"Emma. Please." She beamed at Charles with a smile as brilliantly white as her evening gown. Good thing his mysterious bosses had supplied a tuxedo.

"Emma, then. Thank you for inviting me to your home."

"Don't be silly. We needed a sixth for dinner, and besides, I always want to get to know Sebastian's friends." Emma slipped her arm into Charles' with a conspiratorial smile. "Particularly when he's as fond of them as he is of you."

 _She knows_. Charles' smile never wavered. "You flatter me."

"Hardly. Come and meet our other guests."

Sebastian Shaw lived in high style. The vaulted ceiling of his foyer reached up at least forty feet; black and white marble tiles turned the floor into a chessboard. A staircase curved sinuously along one wall, its banister rippling upward like an ebony-scaled snake. The chandelier dangling above would have entirely filled a normal-sized room. _So this_ , Charles thought, _is what they mean by ill-gotten gains._

If Kurt had made any riches from his work on behalf of the Nazis, his family never saw a penny of it.

Emma shepherded Charles into an equally palatial dining room, where Sebastian stood chatting with three other men, all of whom had a cocktail glass in hand. Sebastian smiled broadly. "Ah, you made it."

"Wild horses couldn't have, et cetera, et cetera." That was just the sort of slick thing he might've said as a boy in prep school. Hopefully it worked.

"Now, let me introduce my friends." Sebastian pointed to the first man, a tall, thin, balding gentleman whose gentility thinly masked contempt; this one, at least, knew who Charles was and why Sebastian wanted him here. "Charles, this is Walter Beardsley. Walter, this is Charles Xavier."

"Charmed," Beardsley said, politely enough. Charles simply nodded as he repeated in his mind, _Walter Beardsley, Walter Beardsley, balding, brown eyes, about six foot one, no more than 165 pounds, English accent on the posh side, Walter Beardsley._

Sebastian continued, "Here we have Ivan Mathis. Ivan, Charles is Kurt Marko's stepson."

"A great loss." Mathis put his drink aside to take one of Charles' hands in both of his own. "I met Kurt only a few times, but I thought very highly of him. To many he died a hero."

"That's good to hear," Charles replied solemnly. It was useful, at any rate. _Blond hair going gray, perhaps five foot nine, near 180 pounds, first name Ivan but accent sounds German, left-handed. Ivan Mathis._

"Last but not least, Eberhard Hupka." Anyone else might have missed the momentary twist to Sebastian's smile – the one that made it clear he considered Hupka to be very much the least of those present. Charles noted it with the rest.

"Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Xavier." Hupka said. "Any friend of Sebastian's is a friend of mine."

 _Brown hair, spectacles, also five foot nine but closer to 220 pounds, accent Eastern European but hard to place, trying too hard to flatter Shaw. Or placate him, perhaps._ "Always good to make new friends." Charles shook Hupka's hand. "And please, call me Charles."

The dining room seemed to be prepared for a far larger party. Although the table was appropriately set for the guests invited, wine bottles lined the mantelpiece at the far end of the room, and a few more stood on the floor near the fireplace. Eight, no, nine – were they supposed to finish them all tonight?

 _Too bad I'm out of practice_ , Charles thought. His desperate drink on the sailboat had been a matter of necessity; since then, he'd abstained from any but the lightest social drinking, the better to observe and remember everything around him. If this were meant to be some sort of wild bacchanal, he'd have to strike a balance between playing along and keeping his wits about him.

However, the waiters brought in entirely different bottles of wine for dinner – another red, perhaps better suited to their dishes. Emma proved an ideal hostess; each course was beautifully chosen, and so delicious that she must have retained an excellent cook. More than that, she kept conversation bubbling along easily. She would have disguised the peculiar uneasiness in the room entirely from anybody less observant than Charles.

But tension lurked between the words, most of it circling Eberhard Hupka.

"What do you like best about Rio so far, Charles?" Emma cut her fish so daintily she might have been a jeweler with a gem.

"Besides finding old friends?" Charles stole a quick glance at Sebastian, which earned him the desired smile. "I'd have to say the rain forest."

"Really? Never took you for the wilderness type," Sebastian said.

He and Erik, hidden away in a soft glade, kissing each other in the aftermath as though they would never have to stop – "Yes," Charles said evenly. "When I'm outdoors I'd usually rather be on the water. But I went to the rain forest on one of my first days here, and I thought … well, I thought I'd never been anywhere more beautiful."

"Do you know, I've never been?" Emma said. "I must remedy that soon."

"I could drive you, if you liked!" Hupka's offer sounded eager – no, anxious. "As soon as you say the word, Mrs. Shaw."

 _She told me to call her Emma right away_ , Charles thought. _She's known Eberhard Hupka longer, but never paid him the same courtesy. Does that say more about her attitude toward me or about her attitude toward Hupka?_

The rest of the dinner conversation provided only hints of useful information, but Charles paid attention. Beardsley mentioned spending time in with "our friends" in Santa Catarina. Charles still had only the loosest grasp on Brazilian geography; it didn't matter. Probably Erik and his compatriots would be able to do far more with that information. When Mathis mentioned an upcoming flight to Zurich, Charles made a mental note, so the flight manifest would be monitored – just like Mathis' movements in Switzerland.

But the most telling moment of the night came at the dessert course, when something both decadent and chocolate was put on their plates. Sebastian wanted to put the final touch on their meal. "The cabernet would pair beautifully with this. Open another bottle, would you?"

The man serving them paused. "Sir, I'm afraid we've quite finished the cabernet. I could go into the cellar for more, or – why, we seem to have a cabernet here." He gestured toward the wine on the mantel.

"No!" Hupka jerked to his feet, eyes wide. "Don't open that!"

Beardsley's hand closed tightly around Hupka's arm, towing him back into his chair. Emma's gaze turned icy, and Mathis refused to look at him. To cover his own confusion, Charles took a bite of dessert. Sebastian alone remained calm, simply saying, "We have a nice champagne chilled, don't we? Give us that instead."

After dinner, Emma took Charles' arm again. "You must see the terrace garden. Sebastian and I take tea out there most mornings. Perhaps someday you'll join us?"

 _She definitely knows._ "—certainly. I'd love to see it." At any rate, Charles had no good excuse to remain behind and hear what the others had to say.

The Shaws' garden seemed nearly as large as the rain forest itself. Of course the darkness beyond played part, making the leafy tropical trees around them seem to stretch on forever. But even from the few lights on the terrace, Charles could see the broad expanse of terra-cotta tile, the many planters filled with various ferns and flora, and the elegant wrought-iron chairs set in a semicircle for what must have been the best view. In the night, it was hard to tell.

"I can't tell you how happy I am that you and Sebastian found each other," Emma said.

He had to tread carefully. "Always good to see old friends."

"But it's special for you two, isn't it?" Emma raised an eyebrow, leaned close. "I'm not a child, you know. I understand that men need interests of their own."

Charles' first instinct was to tease her. _Is that why we're out here instead of enjoying the after-dinner brandy?_ But he couldn't afford to show any curiosity about whatever was transpiring inside. "You're – very kind."

She patted his cheek, as if he were a child. "Sebastian was right about you. So shy!"

He laughed, using the awkwardness he felt, trusting Emma to misinterpret it. In his mind he thought only, _How do I get back in there?_

Tried, true and inarguable was best. "If you'll excuse me, I should visit your washroom."

Emma apparently believed him; not a flicker of doubt crossed her face as she said, "Of course. You should use the one on the second story – just to the right of the stairs."

She was American, to judge by her accent. "Second story" to an American meant first story. How slowly could Charles contrive to climb one flight of stairs? Judging that he was more likely to be observed going than returning, Charles resolved to go up as fast as he could, then slowly descend again. (Unfortunately, he really did have to use the washroom, which wasted a couple of minutes he could have spent eavesdropping.)

On his slow way down, however, Charles' patience was rewarded.

"This is the sort of sloppiness we mean." Even muffled by the drawing-room doors, Sebastian's voice sounded harder than Charles had ever before heard it. This, he knew instantly, was the real Sebastian Shaw – the Klaus Schmidt within. "You make small problems worse by panicking."

Hupka's reply was far too high-pitched. "But – we could hardly have let the bottle be opened!"

"You didn’t trust me to take care of that?" Sebastian snapped. "Tonight was merely a dinner party among those of like minds. Had you made such a mistake in larger company – in the presence of those we know less well – you could have done significant damage."

Beardsley cut in, even more sharply than Sebastian. "We cannot afford such weakness. Especially not now."

"Enough of this," Mathis said, more kindly than the rest – and, to Charles, more frightening. "We shouldn't overstay our welcome."

"Of course, yes." Hupka sounded relieved to be getting out of there. Charles couldn't blame him. He quickened his steps slightly, preparing to return to Emma and pretend to have heard nothing.

But just then he heard Mathis say, "Eberhard, why don't I give you a ride to your flat? You took a car here, did you not?"

"I – I – I can call the car back again, it's no trouble—"

Hupka's protests were smothered immediately. Sebastian said, "Don't be silly. The car will be half an hour at least. And while she's too polite to mention it, I feel sure my wife is tired."

"There, you see?" Mathis said silkily. "You should come with me."

Beardsley added, "By far the best thing."

A chill worked its way down Charles' spine as he realized Eberhard Hupka wouldn't get home tonight, nor ever again.

"Yes, yes, of course!" This attempt to sound cheerful sliced through Charles with an almost physical pain. Hupka was a Nazi sympathizer, and no doubt deserved what he was about to get. But Charles was not made of the sort of stuff that could take pleasure in hearing another man plead for his life, in vain. "How kind of you, Ivan. Sebastian, do give my regards to your lovely wife – your young friend, too, Marko's stepson – both so charming. And – and I am sorry about the wine bottle – "

Charles could bear no more. He walked quickly out onto the terrace, sucking in a deep breath as he shut the door behind him; even the warm, moist air felt bracing after that.

Several paces away, Emma was speaking to their manservant. "Yes, put them all in the wine cellar, but apart from the other Cabernets. All the '34 wines should be kept separate at all times."

"Yes, madam."

"Hullo there," Charles called. Making some noise himself would be the best way to cover the fact that he'd overheard anything, wouldn't it? That had been clumsy, though. He went back to his best easy demeanor. "Miss me?"

"Desperately." Emma smiled as she came forward to buss his cheek. Their servant vanished, no doubt headed toward this mysterious wine cellar. "And look. Here's Sebastian."

Sebastian walked out just behind Charles. Though his grin was clearly for Charles, he spoke to his wife first. "Our guests have departed, and we're finally alone."

"Ahh." Emma threw her arms open wide, as if embracing the sky. "We're free!"

Charles laughed. "Aren't I a guest?"

"You don't count," Sebastian said. "You're always welcome."

"Always," Emma echoed. "And now, if you'll excuse me, these shoes are killing me, and I long for nothing so much as a good night's sleep." Her eyes sparkled as she began to walk away. "I trust you two can keep each other entertained?"

"Of course," Sebastian said.

As soon as Emma had closed the door behind her, Charles turned to Sebastian, allowing his astonishment to show. "Your wife's welcome is – more than warm."

"Emma understands me." Sebastian brushed a lock of Charles' hair back behind his ear. "Now that we're alone, I have a proposal for you."

Charles kept a smile on his face by force of will. "I bet I can guess what this might be."

"Oh, I think I might surprise you."

 

**

 

Racetracks were much the same all the world over: Horses (or camels, or greyhounds, whatever animal the locals preferred), the smell of their sweat and dung, a track framed with spectators and, everywhere, the sound of bets being made.

Erik stood with the day's racing program in his hands, his fedora cocked just so on his head. Supposedly he was here to play the ponies, and so he'd placed a couple of bets. Of course, this allowed him to linger near the tellers – the most likely place at the track to accidentally encounter another spectator.

When Erik first spotted Charles, he didn't trust his instincts. That had been a split second of a view, one moment of one man in the center of a teeming crowd. He saw Charles in that man because he wanted to see him – because it was his job –

But then the crowd parted again, and Erik saw he had been right. Anywhere, at any moment, he knew Charles.

Trousers the color of good butter. A white sweater, the sleeves pushed to his elbows. A royal blue scarf knotted around his neck. Charles looked for all the world like a careless playboy, and even the binoculars he held would be assumed to serve for watching the horses, no more. Erik tried to admire only the perfection of Charles' guise, not the sunlight in his hair nor the curve of his ass, nothing else but the job, the work.

Charles spotted him only a moment later and lifted one hand in an easy wave. Erik nodded and strolled over. No need to hurry.

"Hello again," Charles said, addressing the Pan Am executive he'd met on the plane. "Fancy running into you here."

"Who doesn't love a good race? Tell me, who've you got in the third?"

"Let me see – hmm – I'm putting my money on Blackbird."

"Went with Warrior's Helm, myself."

"May the better horse win." The pitch of Charles' voice changed only slightly as he said, "Come with me while I lay my bet, why don't you?"

"Why not? I like seeing the money I'm about to win."

Erik flattered himself that Charles' answering laugh was genuine.

They walked around the tellers' booth, to the slightly less crowded side; here, they were invisible from the stands. Erik said, "I take it Mr. Shaw's in his seat?"

"With his wife, a most accommodating woman." Charles rolled his eyes. "Have you got paper and pen? I've got a lot to tell."

The facts poured out of Charles almost faster than Erik could write. Names, suspected countries of origin, hair color, eye color, weight – all that was impressive enough. But Charles had taken the measure of each man, assessing his character in a way Erik sensed they could rely upon. The work was as solid as that of a professional operative, and Erik thought he should pay Charles the respect of saying so.

But the next detail Charles shared distracted him. "The wine bottles?"

"I know it sounds odd." Charles' arms were folded in front of his chest. "But the '34 cabernet isn't for drinking, the bottles are to be kept apart from the rest of the wine, and I suspect Eberhard Hupka was killed for drawing attention to them."

"You haven't seen him since?" Erik asked. Charles shook his head. "Right. We'll put our ears to the ground, see what we can find out. As for the wine, though – that's damned strange. Of course you can't question Shaw about it."

"No, but …" Charles's voice trailed off, and he hugged himself more tightly. "I might have a chance to explore the wine cellar, eventually."

That sounded improbable to Erik, and dangerous. At this point, though, he trusted Charles not to do anything too reckless. "Any other developments to report?"

"I was just getting to that. You see – Sebastian – he's asked me to live with him." 

Incredulous, Erik looked up from the notepad to stare at Charles. "What, he's going to take some apartment for you to share on weekends?"

"No, he wants me to move into the house. Like I said earlier, or hinted anyway, Shaw's wife understands his – hobbies. According to him, Emma is a partner in his work, one who saw the value in their little charade. She won't object. In fact, he says she'll approve of his having someone in the house they can be sure of." Charles laughed at the irony of it, even though Erik knew that was proof of how well Charles was doing his job. "That tells us a lot of work gets done out of the Shaw household. So that's where I need to be, don’t you think?"

It took Erik a moment to answer. "Makes sense."

"I thought you'd say so. But will you run it by our employers to make sure I have approval? If I don't get that, they're liable to assume Sebastian Shaw seduced me into abandoning the cause for a few sweet words and a house on a hill."

"If I'm in Cinelândia Square tomorrow morning with a red book in my hands, you're good to accept his invitation. If not, wait until you hear from me."

Charles nodded.

Erik wanted nothing more than to end the interview now. There was no reason for this to bother him more than the fact of Sebastian sleeping with Charles– and there was no reason for _that_ to bother him at all. Yet he loathed the idea of Charles under Shaw's roof.

Under his control.

"Could you do something for me?" Charles asked, more quietly than the rest. "You generally, the agency or whatever."

"What's that?"

"Keep my apartment for me. It makes sense, strategically; I'd have signed a lease, so of course I wouldn't move out entirely at first. I'd still keep a few things there."

"Yes, it makes sense." Erik frowned. "But that's not why you asked me, is it?"

"No. I need – if I'm going to get through this, I need to know there's a place I can go to be alone for a while, if I need to. Someplace Sebastian Shaw can't reach me. I realize I'd blow my cover if I went to often, and maybe I'll never go there at all. But it would help if – if I had something left to call my own."

Erik didn't answer at first. His voice had failed him. His nerve very nearly did as well. What an idiot he was, to let himself be undone by something as simple as this.

But it wasn't the request. It was the desperation beneath Charles' words as he pled for a few rooms where he could escape. As good as Charles had proved to be at this work, as blithely as he spoke about it, this was affecting him on a level he hadn't let Erik see – until now.

Finally, hoarsely, Erik said, "You should get that much. I'll see to it. For you."

"Erik – "

"What?" His temper, now thawed, instantly came to a boil. "What else do you want from me? A pat on the head? A gold star? You're doing your job well enough, and you haven't asked for anything we haven't already given you."

Charles flushed. "I suppose you've given me as much as you wanted, yes."

Erik wanted to give Charles so much more – his body, his bed, whatever he had left of a soul. He hated knowing this; he intended for Charles never to know it. Only then did either of them stand a chance of walking away intact at the end. He said only, "Don't play the lover spurned. It doesn't suit you."

"Not as flattering as the moonstruck boy you brought to Rio, I suppose. You seemed to like him more."

"You aren't moonstruck any longer, I take it."

This was an opening for Charles to say anything he wanted, no matter how cruel. No matter how true. Erik wanted Charles to draw a line between them that neither could ever cross again.

Instead, Charles looked up at him with such desperate longing Erik could hardly breathe.

"If you only understood –" Charles had to swallow hard before he could continue talking. "If you knew the half of what I felt for you – you couldn't stand there ,and crack wise, and pretend none of this matters. Maybe you'd still be done with me – I don't think you let yourself care about much any longer, except your hate for the Nazis and your hate for yourself. But you wouldn't be so cold. You couldn't look me in the eye when you say these things. Not if you knew."

Erik knew Charles had underestimated his capacity for cruelty. This would be a good moment to prove it, to speak words that would forever scar Charles' heart and turn him against Erik forever.

The words didn't come.

Instead, he said, "Would it make any of this easier? If I knew? If I said all the things you wish I'd say? You don't need a lover. You need redemption. You said so yourself. This is the job. The only way to get the job done is to forget everything that came before, up to and including our little … indiscretion."

Charles breathed in, a soft sound of surprise – but he didn't look offended, or hurt. What Erik saw in his face was compassion. "That's what you've done with your family, isn't it? Your wife and your child. You've made yourself forget them – or, at least, you try."

Magda remained clear in Erik's mind (her dark eyes, the curl of her hair, the dark red shoes she wore when he took her out dancing), but he could no longer precisely recall the sound of her voice. He'd done better with Anya. She had faded to a blur, a soft talcum-scented idea of a baby rather than the real infant he'd held in his arms.

"I don't carry unnecessary baggage." That was as close as Erik could get to a denial. Or confirmation. It felt like both. "If you want to be effective, neither should you."

Although Charles nodded, his expression could only be described as one of pity. "You said you escaped from Dachau. That you lived while your family died. But I think you killed the best part of yourself to keep them company."

Erik could have struck Charles, then. "My daughter was sent into a gas chamber before she was old enough to go to school. My wife starved behind barbed wire. They died alone. Nothing I do changes that. **Nothing.** So spare me the cheap psychoanalysis and get your head back in the game."

Charles took one step backward, realizing he'd crossed a line. "My apologies. Truly. I won't speak of them again."

Somehow that was the part that got to Erik. The idea of Magda and Anya never even being spoken of again – of not existing even as memory, or history – it pierced an unshielded spot within Erik's heart. He sucked in a sharp breath, hating that Charles would see even this brief vulnerability. But Erik needed moments like this. If he didn't know where he could still be hurt, he didn't know what wounds to cauterize. Before he could be totally hard, the pure weapon needed for the task ahead, he had to make sure nothing was left of his soul but scars.

 _If you knew the half of what I felt for you_ , Erik thought as he looked at Charles, _neither one of us would have a chance of walking out of here alive._

"Are you all right?" Charles said quietly.

Erik straightened. The racetrack crowd flowed around them, an endless rushing roar of humanity. "Like I said – skip it."

"Fine, then."

"You've told me everything you have to tell? Then what are you wasting time down here for?"

" _Christ_."

"Not my deity."

"You know," Charles said tightly, "you might be funny, if you weren't such a complete bastard."

He needed to be harsh – but not punitive. "Listen, you're doing good work. As good as any of our men could do, even the ones with proper training and years of experience. Keep it up, all right. We're going to get people on this wine bottle thing; we'll look for Hupka. You're making real progress." But the ending would keep things in check. "No point in getting sloppy now."

"That’s all you have to say? Of course it is." Charles breathed out sharply. "If you'll excuse me, I have a bet to place, in case Sebastian asks where I've been."

Erik strolled to the side of the track so he could watch the third race. Even though he'd wagered on Warrior's Helm, he found himself rooting for Blackbird.

But it turned out they'd both picked the wrong horse.

 

**

 

"Atomic Age has it!" Emma applauded as her husband nodded in satisfaction at his latest winner, a pale grey horse named for this new era of bombs that could annihilate the world. The Shaws' box in the highest level of the stands looked out at the very best view of the track; the two of them wore matching sunglasses. "You're the best gambler I've ever known, darling."

"You're not so bad yourself."

"Charles is taking forever, isn't he?"

Sebastian shrugged. "The bookmaking down there is pure chaos. I needed some time to figure it out at first too."

"… has he given you an answer yet?"

"Not yet. I'll press him again in a few days."

"And then he'll be yours," Emma said. "Ours."

"My greedy girl." He chucked her under the chin, smiling benevolently. "Who would ever expect we'd have so much in common in the boudoir? Under the circumstances."

Emma stretched, languid and satisfied. "If Charles moves in, you'll be sure to give him the bedroom directly next to mine? You promised."

"I keep my promises, dear. You'll be able to hear everything. Ah, there he is."

When Sebastian pointed, Emma saw Charles Xavier weaving through the crowd toward the stairs that would lead him back to them. He glanced back once, at a man in a grey suit and hat who seemed to have been standing near him a few moments before. "Who is that?" she murmured.

"I'll ask. Probably no one."

Which was probably true. Still, at such an important juncture, Emma couldn't help but be concerned – about everything, really. "You're not at all worried about having him in our house? About the contents of the wine cellar?"

Sebastian laughed. "Charles Xavier won't care about any wine bottles he can't drink from. Don't worry. We'll keep him too intoxicated – one way or another – for him to cause any trouble. And when we ship the wine to our good friends in Argentina – "

"Atomic Age," Emma repeated, with a slow, lazy smile. Then she straightened, instantly becoming someone more proper and cheery. "Charles! There you are, dear."

He held his hand out to her as he joined them in their box. "It was a madhouse down there. And all so I could place a losing bet!"

"Never mind. I won for both of us." Sebastian said as Charles sat next to him. He reached out to pat Charles' knee as he said, "Who was that, down below? You seemed to be speaking with someone."

"Oh, you remember him, from the riding club. Erik Lehnsherr, the man I met on the flight to Rio. Ran into him at the teller's window." Charles sounded bored.

Emma motioned to the silver flask of brandy they'd set up between them. "Have a drink, darling. Before your day becomes too dull."

Charles rarely drank to excess – Emma had noticed this – but today he said, "You know? I think I will." She amused herself watching her husband, who in turned watched Charles' throat as he swallowed deeply.

The mental image might come in handy for her too, soon.

After he'd taken a few very deep swigs, Charles leaned back in his seat, his posture more relaxed than before. He rested one hand on Sebastian's knee. "Who have you got in the next race? You seem to win every time you place a bet."

When Sebastian and Emma's eyes met, they both smiled. "You're right," he murmured to Charles. "I usually do."


	8. Prelude To A Kiss

 

That day at the racetrack had been an aberration. Erik did not intend to fall prey to such weakness again.

So, from then on, he and Charles kept their meetings short. Often they never even looked each other in the face. But in those few moments, it seemed as if they could say everything.

In Cinelândia Square, one of the last regular meetings they had there, Charles told him that he was resettled in Sebastian Shaw's house. "My bedroom's the size of a squash court. I can't stand it."

"But Sebastian believes you love it."

"Yes, he does." Charles' lips pressed together, as if he were enduring momentary, physical pain. Erik thought of everything Sebastian Shaw might have asked of Charles, to make him react this way; this must be what acid felt like, as it ate through skin and bone.

"They suspect nothing?" Erik said, because the words filled the silence.

"No. The Shaws appear to be completely convinced they've acquired a hapless young playboy and lackadaisical Nazi sympathizer."

"Just their brand of toy." After Erik said it, he saw the pain in Charles' eyes, quickly covered by anger, and was glad. The angrier Charles could be at him, the better off they'd be.

Then:

"Mathis is back from his little trip," Charles murmured as they sat on opposite sides of one of the long wooden tables in the Royal Portuguese Reading Room. Stories of bookshelves soared above their heads; the stained glass window cast Charles' hair in blue and red.

Erik made sure to look back at his book. "How did it go?"

"He's been quiet about specifics, but – it went well. Sounds as if their friends from the countryside might be coming to Rio soon."

"Slinking out of hiding, then."

"Perhaps."

Then:

At the Museu de Belas Artes, standing on either side of a classical marble nude, Erik murmured, "By the way, your instincts were right about Eberhard Hupka."

Charles stared up resolutely at the statue – its perfectly proportioned body so like Charles' own that Erik wondered if it felt like looking in a mirror. His lips pressed together in a thin line. "You mean … you found his body."

"Pieces. Enough to be sure the rest isn't ambulatory elsewhere."

Charles shook his head. "I hated everything that man stood for. But hearing him beg to live, knowing they wouldn't spare him – it was awful."

"Save your pity for men who weren't Nazis."

"Should I save it for myself? If Shaw and the others catch on, I'm the next one cut to pieces."

Erik had known Charles' life to be in danger from the very beginning, but the thought of his body (the body Erik had held in his arms, the body as beautiful as the statue before them) like the one they'd found – no more than a forearm, half a torso, and a pitifully ragged head –

He bit the inside of his cheek and remained silent for the few moments it took Charles to walk away, then left in the opposite direction.

Browsing at the same stall at the Praca Quinze, elbow to elbow, Charles said, "They're throwing a party."

"Doesn't exactly sound like a crisis."

"It might not be," Charles admitted, "but both Sebastian and Emma keep talking about how many of their 'friends' are coming into town for the occasion. Beardsley and Mathis seem to be as much a part of the planning as the Shaws themselves. So I think the guest list might be worth looking at."

Erik knew Charles was right. "Can you get me the list?"

"No – I was speaking metaphorically. To the best of my knowledge, they haven’t actually written the names down all in one place. But I could do the next best thing."

"Which is?"

"Invite you myself."

"That's not the next best thing," Erik said. "It's even better. I can take a look at the guests, and maybe slip down to the wine cellar and see what's so strange about those bottles of the '34 cabernet."

He'd expected Charles to smile at the praise – he still did, sometimes. Instead, Erik's suggestion was met with a frown. "You don't think I've tried that? They keep the wine cellar locked at all times, and Emma has the only key."

The crowds in the market streamed around them; the air was filled with the sounds of haggling in Portuguese, Spanish and English. Yet it seemed to Erik that some invisible force separated him and Charles from all the rest. Even amid all the noise, between them was a palpable silence. Their eyes met for a moment, and this time Charles didn't immediately look away.

Finally Erik said, "The party will be different. They'll have to go into the wine cellar to bring up bottles to serve."

Charles shook his head. "Emma will plan all that in advance." But slowly he began to nod. "That means she won't actually need the key during the party itself. I could swipe it and put it back again without her noticing, if we acted fast."

"That's the ticket. What's the dress code for this soiree?"

"Black tie, of course. Good thing the agency bought me a tuxedo."

"Now they'll have to buy me one."

Charles smiled again, even as Erik did – it was their first shared joke in what felt like a very long time. The anger that had lingered since that day at the racetrack had faded, at last, or at least passed out of sight for a while.

Maybe, now, it would be all right to ask. "How are you holding up?"

"Holding up?" Charles' casual tone fooled neither of them.

"Living with Shaw. You're – you're still all right?"

Slowly, Charles said, "He makes me narrate everything we do together in bed. He wants to hear me say it, so I do. 'You're fucking me, Sebastian.' 'I'm about to suck you off.' 'You're tying me to the bed.' All of that."

The dark kaleidoscope of images spinning within Erik's mind showed him every one of those scenes. How was it he could hate Sebastian Shaw even more than he did just for being a Nazi? The loathing felt like a fire inside Erik, consuming him from within.

Charles continued, "At first I thought it was some fetish of his. Harmless as such things go. But then I realized Emma's more than an obedient wife, ready to turn a deaf ear. The exact opposite. She _listens_. Maybe she even watches. I don't know."

They were using Charles as their mutual plaything. Violating what little privacy he had left, all for the sake of some sick private joke. Erik had not hit a woman since a Vichy sympathizer tried to inform on him in the winter of 1942; for Emma Frost Shaw, he might have to try it again. "I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter," Charles said. Their eyes met. "Does it?"

For a long moment, Erik felt as though he could not reply. But he managed to say, "Will I receive an invitation in the mail?"

Charles broke eye contact as he stepped back. "I'll put one in the post this evening." With that, he rejoined the flow of the crowd; within seconds, Charles was gone, invisible amid the hundreds of shoppers clustered in the market aisles.

All Erik could do was watch him go.

 

**

 

Charles drank his first cocktail two hours before the party was to begin.

The drinks had crept up on him, these past few weeks. Sebastian and Emma's nonstop social whirl sent Charles to club after club, party after party; to be the only sober person in attendance was to be conspicuous, and Charles knew that – as Sebastian's "special friend" – he already drew too much attention.

That much was necessity. But after these nights out, when Sebastian came to Charles' bed, Charles found the sex easier through the haze of wine, or gin and tonics, or a Singapore sling. The faint tingling numbness of his skin muted Sebastian's touch; the grogginess in Charles' head kept him from thinking too much about what Sebastian was doing, or what Emma was hearing.

Sometimes the booze even kept him from thinking about Erik.

So the number of drinks had increased. One a night, to two, and now three or four, depending on the strength. Charles could still pace himself to a degree, hold back when he hadn't had a good dinner, that sort of thing. But he found himself craving that oblivion far too often.

 _See,_ he thought one night as he lay alone in bed, semen still damp on the sheets. _Erik was right about you. Right to run away. You're nothing but a drunk, really._

By morning Charles no longer believed this. However, his nights were becoming more persuasive than his days.

For this particular soiree, however, Charles was determined to keep himself sharp. One drink would … take the edge off, but he could still operate. Maybe better than before, really, because that slight fuzz of alcohol would keep him from reacting when Erik Lehnsherr walked through the door.

"There you are," Sebastian said when Charles descended the staircase. Their tuxedoes were cut so similarly that they might have been twins, Charles thought. Extremely dysfunctional twins.

"Here I am." Charles nimbly took the last step and leaned forward just enough to kiss Sebastian – a fleeting touch the servants could pretend not to see. "Everything ready?"

"More or less. I'm concerned Emma hasn't brought up enough champagne." Sebastian gestured toward the bar, where a good twenty bottles were already on ice, awaiting the guests. "Though I suppose we can always go for more later."

The key to the wine cellar – normally kept on Emma's ring of household keys – now sat within Charles' pocket; his mere awareness of the key made it feel far heavier than it was. If Emma tried to go back into the wine cellar now, she would discover the key's absence. After that, it could be no more than an hour or two before Charles was exposed.

"I'm sure it's fine," Charles said, trying to sound casual. "Not everyone will want champagne, after all, and you've a splendid full bar ready and waiting for them."

Sebastian nodded. "Better to have to go back for them than to bring them up unnecessarily. I don't want to have too many bottles chilled, then stored again. Always does something to the taste – the champagne's never the same, after that."

"Exactly." Charles slid his arms around Sebastian's neck. "Have I ever told you how thankful I am we were brought together?"

"Tell me again," Sebastian said. "With a kiss."

As their lips met, Charles thought, _I'm thankful because you give me a chance to finally do the right thing, and – because without you, I'd never have known Erik. Never have loved him._

_Even now, I'm glad I felt it._

The buzz and bustle in the house increased as the hour drew closer. Emma descended the stairs in a beaded white dress with a high collar and long sleeves, which seemed to turn her into an iridescent column of ice. Long tables were set with cheeses, meats, crackers and little cakes … and, Charles noted with concern, several pyramids of champagne glasses. Sebastian had hired a string quartet to play, and by the time the first cars drove up, Mozart already wafted through the halls.

Naturally, Sebastian and Emma formed the reception line. Charles' role was to have no role, to simply linger nearby for introductions to anyone who might respond positively to the name "Kurt Marko."

There were far more of these people than Charles would have guessed.

 _My god_ , he thought, as he watched the throng swell from a dozen people to three dozen, to more than a hundred. _Are they all Nazis? This many got away? They think they can run away from what they've done, come here and enjoy fancy soirees in their evening jackets and floor length gowns._

_But all they're doing is signing their own arrest warrants._

With some satisfaction, Charles excused himself frequently, stepping into the washroom or the kitchen to jot down names and details as he heard them. Yet his concentration wavered slightly he watched the pyramids of champagne glasses swiftly shrink; the bottles in ice were already down by almost half. At this rate they'd run out before 10 p.m. ( _Could I get her key back on the ring before then? She hasn't got the keyring on her; that dress fits so tightly I doubt she's wearing underpants_.)

But even these worries were dwarfed by the moment of overwhelming, irrational joy the moment he saw Erik Lehnsherr walk in.

Erik had, indeed, convinced his superiors to buy him a tuxedo – a tuxedo that fit him exquisitely, emphasizing both the broad span of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist and hips. The stark black of his jacket and crisp whiteness of his shirt only highlighted the stormy grey-blue of Erik's eyes. He had never looked so beautiful.

Or so far away.

Sebastian, meanwhile, looked confused but was attempting to cover it with the best manners he could muster. "Forgive me, but I don't believe – "

"My apologies, Sebastian." Charles inserted himself into the introductions; Erik's response – a raised eyebrow, something that wasn't quite a smile – it was so muted, so _correct_ , that Charles didn't know whether to curse him or applaud. "You said I could invite anyone I liked, but I've gotten to know precisely one person outside your circle here in Rio. So of course I had to ask him! May I present Mr. Erik Lehnsherr, an executive with Pan American Airlines, spending some time in Brazil as he sets up their new South American routes."

"Mr. Lehnsherr." Emma gave Erik a brilliant grin that made it entirely clear – she might like listening to Charles and Sebastian, but she wouldn't have minded making some noise of her own in bed. Maybe the voyeurism wouldn't end with Charles; maybe she'd expect him and Sebastian to listen to her and Erik. Or vice versa. Charles pushed the thought away before it could damage the smile he wore. "How delightful to meet you."

"Thank you for welcoming me to your home." Erik kissed her hand, and in that moment it was if Charles could read Erik's mind. At this moment, Erik was reveling in the sight of two Nazis bending over backwards to please a Jew, one with the power and the will to bring them down.

Charles had to smile too.

"Any friend of Charles' is a friend of ours," Sebastian said. "I hope you'll enjoy the party."

"I feel sure of it," Erik replied.

As his only acquaintance in attendance, it was natural enough for Charles to escort Erik further into the party. While they walked deeper into the foyer, Erik murmured, "They're pleased with themselves, aren't they?"

"Not for long." Charles' reward for saying this was a smile, and the brief burst of happiness that came whenever he and Erik understood each other.

Erik, of course, immediately went back to business. "How's our access to the wine cellar?"

"I've got the key. As soon as we're sure no servants are in the kitchen, we need to make our move." Charles had walked himself through this countless times today; the cocktail had no power to dilute it. "We won't have long, though. I don't think they've got enough champagne for a party this size. When they get down to five bottles or so, they'll want to get into the cellar. I've got to have the key back on the ring before then."  

"Can you manage that?" Was it his imagination, or did Erik actually look worried?

Charles thought it over, then nodded. "What I could do is – well, I would only need a moment to unlock the wine cellar. I could do that right now, then take the key back upstairs to Emma's room. All we'd have to do then is be sure we got in and out before they caught us."

"How do we lock the door after us?"

Damn. That was a good point. "It's possible there's an inside lock, since they're so worried about security. And if not – well – you know, with all the noise and commotion, they might not even notice that the key's not turning tumblers in the lock. In fact, I'm almost sure they won't."

"… the risk is greater for you than for me." 

"It's a risk I'm willing to take."

How easy it would be to believe that the slight shift in Erik's expression would be admiration. Erik said only, "You should signal me when we can get in. Something subtle, so it looks like I'm leaving the room for reasons of my own."

Charles thought fast. Subtle, yet eye-catching – "I'll walk through the foyer, then check my bow tie in the mirror."

"Perfect." With that, Erik wandered off to make chit-chat. He didn't look back once.

It made sense, of course. Erik now had an opportunity to glean information from dozens of people who stood a very high chance of being Nazi sympathizers. But that true and sensible fact didn't make Charles feel any less alone in this crowd.

So as the waiter walked by with a silver tray of champagne glasses, Charles snagged one, and drank deeply. _Just doing my part to make sure we run out soon_ , he thought, not believing a word of it.

For all he drank, however, Charles never lost sight of what was happening at the bar. Sebastian and Emma's bash had drawn crowds beyond their most enthusiastic hopes, which made for a lively evening but ever-shrinking reserves of champagne. He continued wandering by the kitchens as often as he could without drawing attention. The kitchen was narrow but long, and the small dark pantry with the wine cellar door was at the far end. If he could be sure no one stood near the far door –

Finally, when he thought he'd counted every single servant out on the floor, Charles swung into the kitchen. He was alone. Perfect.

The key felt like fire in his hand. Charles had been nervous before; he was terrified now. Everything else he'd done to Sebastian so far had been merely a matter of observation and reporting. Opening the wine cellar put him in an entirely new level of danger, and he knew it.

One turn of his wrist, and he heard the faint click of the tumblers. He only heard it because he was listening for it, though, and the lock was a smooth one, one that would feel little different if the key were turned while it was unlocked. Charles pushed the door slightly open, just to hear what noise it made, if any; it was silent. Good. 

Now he had to put Erik in danger too – but every second he delayed increased the jeopardy for them both.

Heart pounding, he climbed the stairs to the upper story, revealing no haste. Neither Emma nor Sebastian would think anything of his excusing himself upstairs, which left the bathrooms downstairs free for guests. The bannister felt cold beneath his clammy palm, but he could see both of the Shaws deep in conversation, unlikely to go or even glance upstairs for a while.

As soon as Charles was out of sight, he ducked toward Emma's room. Done all in white, plush rug to lacy bedclothes to velvet drapes, it was a snowglobe of a room, a fantasy seemingly untouched by the real world.   _Now now now now now_ , his brain chanted, as he scoured through her desk drawers seeking her key ring. He knew she kept it here usually – but if she'd made an exception tonight –

She hadn't. Charles breathed out sharply as he found the ring in the middle drawer. Quickly he slid the key back on, put the ring in the drawer again, shut it, and went back downstairs. As he descended, Emma glanced in his direction once but simply smiled. His movements had caused no suspicion.

So far.

Now he had to wait for the kitchen to clear again. Charles walked toward the back hallway nearest the kitchen, and made a point of studying the painting on the wall. What began as a simple bit of diversion, however, quickly turned into outrage, as Charles realized this was no generic work in oil but instead appeared to be a genuine El Greco. From what Jewish home had this masterpiece been looted? And how could Sebastian hang it on his wall in pride?

In a back room, yet. Was that some vestige of shame, or an inability to appreciate the artwork? Knowing Sebastian as he did, Charles decided the latter was more likely.

The painting was a haunting one: portrait of an unknown man, strangely gaunt and yet arresting. Something in the eyes made Charles think of Erik.

Yet for all his interest in the El Greco, Charles didn't miss the moment when the final two kitchen staffers walked out with a slab of beef that they would now carve and serve. That bought him at least five minutes, maybe ten –

He wandered into the foyer, taking a quick glance at each of the corners in turn. In one he saw Emma holding court, laughing brightly at the male admirers surrounding her; in another he saw Erik talking to a petite brunette so young she could scarcely have been ten years old when the Germans marched into Poland. Charles wondered whether Erik had sought her out because she was pretty, or because she was nearly the only person in the room entirely absolved of being a war criminal. It didn't matter, of course. And he'd noticed Erik remained angled to watch the area of the mirror at all times.

Yet Charles wondered about Erik and the brunette all the same.

Charles walked through the foyer, then – as if an afterthought – briefly paused to check his bow tie in the mirror. Then he went straight back to the pantry and waited, standing there in the shadows, heart beating so hard he thought he could see it through the starched white front of his tuxedo shirt.

He didn't hear Erik's approach until the moment Erik whispered practically into his ear, "We're in?"

"Let's go." Charles pushed the door open and swiftly led them downstairs. His legs felt like jelly beneath him, but he kept his footing on the stairs and even found the light switch on the first try.

As illumination flooded the room, they saw … a wine cellar. Like any other.

"Bollocks," he muttered.

Erik gave him a look. "What's the matter?"

"I'd hoped we'd find – I don't know, maps or weapons. Something obvious."

"You said the wine bottles themselves were the issue," Erik pointed out.

"I know. Still."

"Take it easy. You're doing very well so far."

The praise warmed Charles – as did the realization that he and Erik were alone together, truly alone, in a way they hadn't been since the evening they'd kissed in Charles' flat. They'd met at least a dozen times, but always in public places. Only now were they enclosed by walls and a door, set apart from the world. Erik, perhaps unconsciously, was already speaking to him with some of his old warmth – standing closer than was strictly necessary. It felt as though this mere closeness should change things.

And maybe it would have, if they hadn't been in both danger and one hell of a hurry. "Okay," Charles said. "Let's check the bottles."

They began going over each shelf of bottles, side by side. Charles' shoulder brushed against Erik's a few times, but each of them remained focused on the task ahead.

"Rioja – no. Malbec – no." Erik grimaced. "You're sure it was a cabernet?"

"Yes. The '34 cabernets."

"Nothing odd about this so far."

"Don't you see it?" Charles gestured. Sometimes his childhood as a privileged aristocratic nob paid its dividends. "The bottles are stored standing upright. Most people would store them on their side."

Erik nodded slowly. "Maybe they haven't got the right equipment."

"Do Sebastian and Emma lack for much of anything?"

"Good point."

Finally, on the far wall, they found the cabernets. The '32, the '33 – "Here," Charles said, face lighting up in a smile.

When Erik picked one up, his expression changed too – not a smile, but with a kind of excitement too grim for that. "Don't know what's in these," he said. "But it's not wine."

Charles realized he was right. As Erik tilted the bottle, what moved inside was not liquid; instead, it looked almost like sand or some other powder. Were all the '34 bottles filled with this? "How do we find out what's inside?" Charles said. "I don't suppose you can sneak one out of the house."

"Doubt it." Erik's beautifully cut tuxedo jacket wouldn't allow him to hide anything that substantial. "We'll have to break one."

"What? When they notice it's missing – "

"They've got dozens. They're not likely to realize they're down one anytime soon – and when they do, they'd probably assume the records were in error." Erik paused a long moment before adding, "You could head back to your place for a few days. To be safe."

"That would only draw attention." By now Charles was resolved. This risk, this danger – this, too, was the price of a soul. "Do it."

Erik took the bottle to the corner nearest the bin, then clicked it against the wall, hard enough to crack. Black, fine powder poured out; it glittered slightly in the low light. Erik withdrew a small manila envelope, one small enough to fit easily in his jacket; he swept a good portion of the powder within, sealed it, and tucked it back in his chest pocket. Meanwhile, Charles busied himself rearranging the wine bottles with shaking hands, to refill the gap left by the broken bottle.

"Can you tell what it is?" Charles whispered while Erik swept the rest of the fallen dust into the crevices beneath the stairwell.

"Not a clue. But the boys back at our labs can puzzle it out." Erik buried the pieces of the bottle deep in the rubbish, then nodded toward the steps. "Let's get out of here."

Wordlessly they hurried up the stairs – and thank God, there _was_ an internal lock, one that could easily be set before they went out. As soon as they'd both stepped into the darkened pantry, Erik pulled the door quietly shut behind them, then tried to turn the knob; it wouldn't budge. The adrenalin coursing through Charles finally shifted from dread to elation. _We did it, my God, we did it!_

And then he heard footsteps approaching, and Sebastian's voice saying, "Emma told me we ought to have brought up more champagne." 

He froze. Sebastian and the butler were a mere second from walking through the door. When they did, Charles and Erik would be found together in this small dark space, with no possible reason for their presence except snooping around the wine cellar. _If Erik's searched, they'll find the powder. Nearly every person in this party is a Nazi; any one of them might be willing to take us out back and put a bullet in our brains – this is it, this is the end –_

Erik shoved Charles against the wall and kissed him.

In the first instant, Charles thought this was a kiss goodbye. Their last embrace before death. The way Erik leaned into the embrace, opened his mouth, devoured him – if he could have only one more kiss, let it be this –

But then he realized that Erik was trying to save them both, by providing another reason for them to be alone in the dark.

Charles gave into the kiss for that one moment, surrendering to the way Erik claimed his lips and his body. Their chests were pressed together tightly enough to share a heartbeat; Erik's thigh pushed between his, a prelude to a night in bed they would never share. And in those few seconds Charles knew the emotion in Erik's kiss was real – real in a way nothing else had been this entire night. Real in a way they hadn't been with each other since the rain forest. That truth kindled renewed fire in the ashes, and Charles' mind contained no words but _Erik, Erik._

Yet he also knew truth would destroy them. Time to lie.

As he heard the footsteps at the very opening to the pantry – the first instant Sebastian would be able to see them – Charles pushed Erik off him as hard as he could. When Erik staggered against the china cabinet, with a rattle of the plates, Charles said, "Get your hands _off_ me."

'I read you wrong?" Already Erik sounded as cool as the ice waiting for the champagne. "My apologies."

"Men like you sicken me," Charles spat back. "You pretend to be so superior, when really, down deep, you're not so different. At least I know who I am. _What_ I am. I don't think you have a damned clue."

The angry words presented themselves as lines to be read. Only as he spoke did he realize how much he meant them. The pain that flickered in Erik's gaze turned him into the El Greco again.

But only for a moment. Erik said, "I won't bother you again." He turned then to walk out, and paused only briefly when he saw Sebastian and the butler standing there. To them Erik said, "I had better leave."

"I think you better had," Sebastian replied coolly.

Charles forced himself not to watch Erik as he went, to instead walk to Sebastian. "I'm so sorry – I ought never to have invited him, but I didn't realize – "

"That any man paying attention to you might have ulterior motives? My innocent boy." Sebastian's smile was warmer than ever; so far as he knew, he'd just seen Charles demonstrating his fidelity. He took Charles' hand just for a moment. "Now go back to the party. Have yourself another drink. We'll have plenty of champagne coming up, so don't hold back."

"I won't," Charles said honestly. Right now he wanted a drink. Needed one. Only alcohol would mute the scouring aftermath of terror – or the taste of Erik's kiss still lingering in his mouth.

 

**

 

Erik sat in his car outside the Shaws' mansion, hands clamped around the steering wheel so tightly his fingers ached.

_Go back in there. Get Charles. Walk him out here and drive away. You've got what you came for, and chances are Charles won't give us any further information more valuable than the powder in your pocket right now. Get Charles out of there._

Yet he didn't move.

Landau and the higher brass would all say to leave an asset in place as long as any chance of good intel remained, and the asset's cover remained strong. Charles had played his part brilliantly tonight, start to finish. It seemed all but certain that Sebastian suspected nothing. Erik wouldn't be able to meet with Charles openly much longer – but that was of no importance.

Or it should not have been. To Erik, however, the thought of Charles exposed, in danger, and now beyond Erik's advice or protection – it carved him hollow. Actual physical pain filled the empty space within him, until his breaths came fast in his chest and he flushed hot, then cold, like a man about to be sick.

The packet of black powder was heavy enough that he could feel its weight against his chest. He needed to drive down the hill, back into Rio proper; he needed to hand this over to Landau as soon as possible, so they could faster learn precisely what they were dealing with. But his body felt heavy. Any motion seemed impossible. His logic and reason were clouded by the inescapable thought that he'd just kissed Charles for the last time.

_Get over this. Turn in the powder. The sooner they know what it is, the sooner they can move, which means the sooner Charles can be pulled out. After that he can walk away from Sebastian Shaw – from all of this._

Erik turned the key in the ignition. But before he shifted the car into gear, he put his fingers to his lips and closed his eyes.

 

**

 

In the aftermath of the party, servants bustled around, bundling tablecloths and napkins for the laundry and collecting champagne glasses from unlikely places. Sebastian felt better than he had in a very long time. Like-minded people were being drawn together once more; what were now mere social bonds of shared mourning could soon become something far more cohesive and powerful. The soiree had been a smashing success on the surface, too, filled with laughter and music from start to finish. Emma had never looked lovelier, and she had earned respect for him by simply being the one lucky enough to catch her. Those who knew about Charles saw Sebastian's fondness for him as – excusable, even understandable, given Charles' status as Kurt Marko's son. And Charles himself had proved his fidelity, slapping away a younger, more handsome man than Sebastian himself. Yes, it was a good night.

Or it was until Emma came downstairs. She'd already changed into her white satin dressing gown, but her hair was still coiffed in its complicated curls, and diamonds sparkled in her ears. As she glided to Sebastian's side, she murmured, "May I have a word, dear?"

"Certainly. We'll go upstairs and – "

"On the terrace, I think."

Together they strolled onto the terrace, hand in hand. Sebastian assumed her private request was no more than a suggestion for him and Charles tonight; sometimes she had specific acts in mind, and usually Sebastian was only too happy to oblige her. However, as soon as she shut the French doors behind them, Emma wheeled around, eyes wide. "Did you take the wine cellar key off my ring when you borrowed it tonight?"

"No, of course not."

Her lips pressed together as she held up the ring of keys. "I always keep the cellar key next to my bedroom key," she whispered. "But now the key to your bedroom is between them."

Someone had taken the key off, and replaced it. Someone had slipped into the wine cellar, which meant someone could be on the verge of undoing all their work. Exposing them. Sending them to trial, perhaps in Israel …

"We have to think." Emma's voice was low and urgent. "Which one of the servants would be motivated to do this? They nearly all have access, though I can't imagine any of the upstairs staff would avoid comment if they went into the pantry – "

Sebastian's mouth had turned dry. "Charles."

"What about Charles?"

"I found Charles in the pantry tonight. At the time I thought – I thought he was fending off advances from another man. But there was no reason for them to be there in particular. Odd part of the house to wind up in accidentally."

"Charles?" Emma seemed hardly able to believe it. "But he grew up with Kurt Marko. And he's so fond of you!"

Was he? Sebastian reconsidered his memories of Charles – their first time together on the yacht, his shy acceptance of the invitation to live together – and found them curdling.

Or that day on the racetrack, where Charles had oh so accidentally run into Erik Lehnsherr. A mere acquaintance, from the plane. Whom he had then invited to this party – sometime, somehow.

Emma said, "The way Charles has been drinking, lately – he might have stolen the key simply to take a few bottles of his own. On the sly."

Hardly any need for that in a house where servants would bring Charles as many cocktails as he wished … yet perhaps Charles was attempting to hide the extent of his drinking. Sebastian seized on this. "Yes. It could be that, and nothing more. But we have to be certain."

She nodded. The two of them went into the wine cellar, utterly silent, pausing only so that he could collect a flashlight. Sebastian hoped to find an obviously absent bottle of some fine vintage; he saw nothing like that, but the '34 cabernets all seemed to be in order, so far as he could tell without counting each and every one. Just as he began to feel relieved, however, Emma whispered, "Look."

He followed her pointing finger to the small crack in the concrete beneath the steps … which caught the flashlight's beam with a tiny bit of glitter.

Sebastian went to his knees and ran one finger along the crack; black dust came away on his finger. Emma, meanwhile, began sifting through the refuse down there – old packing paper, mostly, but from the bottom she pulled a broken bottle marked Cabernet, 1934.

 _A spy. Charles Xavier has been a spy all along._ His ego had rebounded upon him as sharply as a slap to the face, but Sebastian kept his cool. He was good at that.

Emma could handle a crisis, too. "How much do you think they know?"

"They know what's in the bottles, or they will soon. We'll have to move the lot to another location, as quickly as one can be found." Where would that be, though? He knew of none offhand, and they could hardly ask for help with this.

His wife had followed his train of thought precisely. "If we tell Beardsley or Mathis – any of the others – we'll be blamed."

This was a genteel way of saying they would wind up like Eberhard Hupka, except diced into even smaller parts. "But Charles must be eliminated. Secretly."

After a moment, she nodded. "And slowly."

"Research some methods. We should begin as soon as possible."

Emma said, "Of course. As for tonight – "

Tonight, even at this moment, Charles Xavier waited for Sebastian in his bed. If only they could have afforded a swift, gory death; Sebastian had a collection of knives for many tasks.

But Emma said, "Be tender with him. Gentle. Tell him you love him."

A lie to match a lie. Soft words to cloak the coming executioner's blade. "A fine idea," Sebastian said, and smiled.


	9. Stormy Weather

Charles and Erik had set up a protocol for their next meet, were they ever to be spotted in each other's company by one of the Shaws or their associates: the following Saturday, an early matinee, back row of a specific movie theater near Charles' all-but-abandoned flat. Although Charles had seen the wisdom of this protocol when they set it up, he had not realized how long one week could seem while he waited to meet with Erik again.

Yet it was for the best, he thought. If Sebastian happened to see them together again anytime soon, or heard of such a meeting from a casual acquaintance, Charles would be suspected of infidelity. (Or worse, if anyone realized the real reason he and Erik had been so close to the wine cellar door.) His time was better spent entrenching himself even more deeply into the Shaws' lives. So he stayed close to Sebastian, played the part of the loyal lover, and listened carefully to everything that was said. This way, when he saw Erik again, Charles might have worthwhile news to report. Something new to add.

They would have something to talk about besides that one perfect, torturous kiss.

But Sebastian proved maddeningly distracted that week. Although Beardsley and Mathis came by as often as before, Sebastian kept postponing any substantive discussions, instead urging them to join him for cocktails, or playing Jo Stafford records out on the terrace.

To Charles' chagrin, he himself appeared to be the cause of that distraction. Ever since Sebastian had seen him push Erik away, he'd become possessive, protective – even adoring. Before, Sebastian had usually left after sex to sleep in his own bedroom; now he lay next to Charles all night long, even dozing off snuggled by Charles's side, making it impossible for Charles to even go to the bathroom without waking Sebastian. He talked over old times constantly, forcing Charles to warm up the few weak platitudes of grief he'd concocted for Kurt Marko. A couple mornings, Sebastian had even brought Charles breakfast in bed. Sebastian's overwhelming affection was almost enough to make Charles feel guilty.

Not quite, though. Charles never forgot who and what Sebastian really was.

Every night, now, they sat out on the terrace. Emma usually joined them at first but excused herself early in the evening. Sebastian would pour Charles a cocktail – then another – and sometimes a third, too. Whenever Charles said he would prefer coffee or tea, Sebastian obliged … but Charles wasn't saying so nearly often enough.

The alcohol helped him fall asleep in a Nazi's arms.

Yet if the drinks made the nights easier, they made the mornings harder. Charles found it harder and harder to drag himself out of bed. On the day he went to meet with Erik again, Charles didn't rise long before noon, and when he bought his ticket to a matinee, he still felt headachy and tired.

He slid into the back row of seats. The light from the screen flickered through the theater, painting the faces of the moviegoers. Yet Charles couldn't glimpse Erik among them.

 _I remembered the theater correctly, didn't I?_ In daytime, with their neon dimmed, the movie palaces of Cinelândia Square could look very like each other.

Then he heard someone settle into the seat next to his. Charles didn't even have to turn his head. "Not like you to be late."

"I wasn't. I've been waiting for you for half an hour." After a long pause, Erik added, less acidly, "Watching this damn thing."

Onscreen, Bing Crosby and Bob Hope frolicked in fake snow, on the road to somewhere. Charles groaned. "Never could stand these movies. If you're not watching for Dorothy Lamour and her sarong – well, I don't see the appeal."

"That makes two of us."

Charles finally looked over at Erik then, but his faint smile faded as he saw Erik resolutely staring up at the screen instead of at him. He hugged himself and slouched back down in his seat. "Sebastian believed our ... playacting."

"We can be convincing when we have to be," Erik said, as if he had forgotten the blazing heat of that kiss. "He hasn't mentioned anything out of order in the wine cellar?"

"As far as Sebastian knows, all is right with the world."

"So you're not in danger."

Charles wanted to look at Erik again then, but didn't. If Erik didn't seem to care about his safety, Charles didn't think he could bear it.

If Erik _did_ seem to care – in any way – Charles _knew_ he couldn't bear that.

He changed the subject. "Any word on the stuff that wasn't wine?"

"Just this morning. Turns out you're sitting on top of a bomb – literally."

"Beg pardon?"

"That black dust turns out to be uranium ore."

Uranium ore. For an atomic bomb? Charles felt his belly wrench with almost painful fear. He'd been going to sleep every night atop the fissile material for the most destructive weapon humanity had ever created. Well, he doubted he'd fall asleep easily again anytime soon.

"It's not dangerous in powder form, not on its own. So rest easy." Erik continued, maddeningly calm. "The thing about this ore is that it's remarkably pure. Uranium turns out to be pretty common stuff – but it's almost always found in combination with other elements. This Nazi cell seems to have found a South American source for uranium richer than any we have or know of."

"And you need me to figure out where." Charles searched his memory, but could think of no place mentioned by Sebastian or his cohorts that sounded likely. At least now he knew what to pay special attention to. "All right. I'm on it."

For a few moments they listened to Bing Crosby sing a fairly insipid song while wearing a fur-trimmed parka. Then Erik said, "You don't look so good."

"I don't feel so good either."

"Under the weather?"

The words could have expressed concern, but instead they were flat. No more than functional. Anger curdled within Charles, twisting his face into a frown. "Hung over, I think."

"Back to the bottle, I see."  

"Old dogs, new tricks. You know. Besides, a few cocktails in the evening – they lighten my chores."

"No doubt." Still, Erik spoke flatly – but the hesitation that followed told Charles the mood was about to change. "We should meet here in one week."

That sounded ordinary enough. "I suppose we have to arrange all our meetings like this now. Or will we find a more private place to talk?" Charles flushed as he realized the obvious suggestion: He ought to give Erik a spare key to the flat he still had nearby. They could meet there, though Charles didn't know if he could bear being with Erik in the same place where they'd kissed – only steps from the bed where he'd wanted them to make love.

But then Erik said, "We might be making a change."

"A change?"

"Doesn't make much sense for me to continue as your handler. Sebastian's got me in his sights, now. If he thinks I'm your lover, you'll be kicked to the curb in no time. If he realizes what's really going on, the only question is which one of us he'll get around to killing first."

Erik would no longer meet with him. Some stranger would be here instead. No doubt this stranger would be an experienced intelligence operative, someone with the same orders to protect Charles as an asset. Yet the thought of it made Charles feel abandoned. Alone. When he trusted his voice again, he said, "Who?"

"Still to be determined. I'll give you the lowdown next week."

"And you – you'll stay at the offices – "

"Not for long. If my cover's threatened here, I can do more good elsewhere. Argentina, maybe, or back in Europe."

Next week would be the last time Charles would see Erik Lehnsherr. The very last time. For a thousand reasons, he should've simply said good riddance. Instead he had to face the humiliating truth that somewhere, deep inside, Charles had still been fool enough to hope.

He said only, "Good luck, then."

"Thanks."

Erik said this more softly, but Charles still didn't turn his head. He would not let Erik overwhelm him again. Just once, he wanted to walk away with his dignity. "Let me leave first, all right? I really can't bear any more of this movie."

He got up and walked out without waiting to hear Erik say yes, or no.

 

**

 

Despite his loathing of the Road movies, Erik sat there until the very end, and through half of a newsreel in Portuguese. He heard almost none of it and saw less. Instead his mind was filled with the image of Charles, pale and drawn – his hair overlong, his tie crooked, and in every other way the shadow of the young man he'd been a couple of short months ago, as they sat in a restaurant by the sea and ate pineapple.

Once he had said to Charles, _I threw my wife and child on the pyre to destroy the Nazis. Did you think I wouldn't throw you too?_

Erik hadn't realized how hard it would be to watch Charles burn.

No price too high. Erik still believed that. Charles believed it too, or he wouldn't have come down to Brazil in the first place – or he would have walked out the moment he learned his mission would require him to become Sebastian Shaw's lover.

_Maybe he would have done, if you hadn't been the one telling him._

That evening, as they'd kissed on the balcony and planned a night of passion, Charles had called theirs a strange love affair. Hidden within those words was a confession of love Erik had hardly let himself acknowledge until this moment.

Had Charles pushed himself beyond his limits – put himself in deeper jeopardy – all because the man he thought he loved had been the one to ask?

No. Erik realized even asking that question made him an utter ass.

Charles had taken on the mission for one reason: he wanted a chance to redeem himself. Erik didn't believe in redemption, but he understood that the need for it could make men braver, stronger and better than themselves – at least, for the hours that mattered. To deny the purity of Charles' motives was to deny his courage.

Erik was also aware that assuming he was reason enough for Charles to risk his life constituted a certain degree of arrogance. Besides, if Charles had loved him, surely he didn't anymore. Every slight Erik had shown him these past weeks had been designed to remove that weakness from Charles' heart, and he knew his jabs had pierced Charles though. By now the last lingering traces of their abortive affair must have been scoured away.

Yet the entire time he walked back to the offices, Erik remembered the heartfelt tenderness of Charles' answering kiss at the wine cellar door.

"Lehnsherr," Landau said as he walked in. "Expected you back a while ago."

"Took longer than I'd planned." That was as much explanation as Erik ever gave. This organization always allowed him a great deal of latitude, subtly suggesting that no one cared _how_ he achieved their goals as long as he got the job done. Erik had long ago accepted that the ends could justify the means – most of the time.

The room was crowded, by intelligence standards. Seven people (eight counting himself) circled the basement table, on which were laid files about uranium ore, likely sites for mines, biographical information on Emma Frost and Sebastian Shaw, and so forth. Paper coffee cups and plastic ashtrays were filled to varying degrees. Erik was the only one without a lit cigarette in his hand. Smoke swirled around the hanging ceiling light, disappearing into the relative dark above.

"Xavier didn't show up on time for the meet?" said someone at the far end of the table.

Erik didn't want to admit he'd spent an hour pulling himself together afterward. But he wouldn't throw the blame for the delay on Charles instead. "We thought for a moment one of the Shaws' acquaintances might have spotted Xavier. It took a while to make sure it was clear for us to leave the theater."

Landau's eyes narrowed. "You're certain Sebastian Shaw doesn't suspect you went into the wine cellar?"

"Xavier says no."

"Does he have any intel about the uranium ore yet?" someone else demanded.

"He only learned about the uranium ore today," Erik pointed out. "He's on it."

"That's not all he's on," a third man said, to a few dirty chuckles from the others.

Erik gripped the arms of his chair tightly, and kept his face impassive.

"If you're still sure of him, that's good enough for me," Landau said. This was praise for Erik, not Charles. "Xavier's still solid?"

As badly as Erik wanted to avoid saying anything negative about Charles, it was his duty to mention this. "Yes, although he's drinking heavily again. By his own admission."

Landau shook his head in disgust. "He wasn't drunk today?"

"No. I think he's staying sharp most of the time." How clearly he remembered the bitterness in Charles' voice as he'd said the drinks lightened his chores. "The drinking happens in the evenings, when he has – cozy up to Shaw."

"Why would Xavier care?"

Erik didn't see who said that. He refused to look toward that voice. "Not many people would want to go to bed with a Nazi."

The burly man next to Erik laughed nastily. " A dick's a dick, isn't it? He's sucked so many, I don't see how one more makes a difference. A man like that –"

"A man like that," Erik repeated. Only when the others stared at him did he realize how loudly he'd spoken. Finally he had their attention. "Yes, Charles Xavier has slept around. Not like anyone at this table, because of course the prostitutes and nightclub girls of Rio are entirely safe from you virtuous men. And we can't forget Xavier's a homosexual. A pervert. And that makes him contemptible, even while he's risking his life, day after day and night after night. Even though he'll certainly die if he gets caught, and he could get caught at any moment. He doesn't deserve the respect we've earned as we sit here safe and sound, drinking coffee and congratulating ourselves on the progress we've made – thanks to the intel he brought us. Yes, by all means, let's be sure to sneer at _a man like that_."

A long pause followed. Finally, Landau said, "I'm not sure you're being professional about this, Lehnsherr."

"Are gossip and dirty jokes about our assets professional?" As Landau's eyes widened with anger, Erik decided to deny the man the relief of an argument. He knew how to hide a snarl behind a cool smile. "Withdrawn. It's past time we got down to business."

There was nothing Landau could say to this. The group went back to work talking about potential uranium sources – and nobody spoke about Charles again for the rest of the long meeting that followed.

Afterward, Erik went home, stopping in at the market on his way. He hadn't bought himself another pineapple since his first few days in Rio, but he purchased one now.

He ate most of it that evening, as he sat in a chair facing his window. Outside, Rio's lights glittered; inside, Erik had only bothered to turn on one small lamp. The pineapple juice stung his lips slightly with every sweet bite. He was out of practice with simpler pleasures.

When he'd decided to leave Rio, Erik had intended to take his leave of Charles briskly. Easier that way for both of them. But when had he begun to take the easy way out?

No, he couldn't afford to be … sentimental. So much of what had passed between him and Charles had to remain unspoken, forever.

Yet when he'd spoken about Charles' bravery today, Erik realized he'd never said as much to Charles himself. Surely Landau and his crew shouldn't be the only ones to hear it. Charles deserved to be recognized for his contributions. He deserved to be treated with respect – to be _honored_ for what he'd done. And no one but Erik would ever do it.

It would hurt, opening up to Charles even that much. Their parting would be far more difficult.

But – finally, for once – Erik wanted to give Charles his due. 

 

**

 

Charles felt so miserable after his meeting with Erik that he begged off cocktails on the terrace and went to bed early. Despite this, Sebastian came to him that night more eager for sex than ever. Despite Charles' throbbing head and exhaustion, he knew he had to acquiesce – and with a smile on his face. Later he wished he'd dared to say no for once; Sebastian had been surprisingly rough, and Charles ached afterward. He was weary enough to fall deeply asleep despite the discomfort.

Yet even though Charles hadn't taken a single sip of alcohol that entire day, he awoke the next morning feeling hung over again. He groaned as he sat up, rubbing at his eyes. Charles had indulged to excess often enough to know that a two-day hangover was possible – and ghastly – but he hadn't drunk anything like that much since leaving Miami.

Aches, chills, fatigue: Maybe he was coming down with the flu.

_Great. I'll have to tell Erik goodbye between bouts of blowing my nose in a snotty handkerchief. What a perfect lovers' farewell._

Charles decided to go down for breakfast, reasoning that a light meal could only help. Emma met him on the stairs, solicitous for his health, and even ushered him out onto the terrace. "Here," she said as she settled him into one of the more comfortable chairs. "You need some fresh air. But it's a bit cool, isn't it? I'll make you a nice hot cup of tea."

"That would be lovely," he said, mustering a smile for her. "Thank you."

He leaned his head against the chair as he looked out over Rio. Really, the view was spectacular from here. Pity he'd never really been able to enjoy it because of the company.

Then he heard Sebastian's voice speaking to someone as they drew nearer. Charles caught a few words – "our upcoming trip south."

"I don't see the need for haste." That was Beardsley. "Especially given your desire to transport your entire supply – "

"Better to move it all at once," Sebastian said. "That way, we limit our exposure. Surely we can reach the Serra Geral in time?"

There was only one "supply" they could possibly be speaking of. Charles began repeating inside his head, _Serra Geral. Serra Geral_. By now he'd learnt enough Brazilian geography to know that was a mountain range to the south.

Beardsley said, "We can arrange a train to Santa Ma—"

"Here you go," Emma trilled, walking out with cup and saucer at the worst possible moment. Charles could have cursed in frustration, but he hung on to what he'd discovered. _Serra Geral. Serra Geral. Serra Geral._

His last meeting with Erik would be his most triumphant. Even Erik would have to acknowledge the importance of the information; for once, his shield of sharp words would fall. Maybe Erik would speak no loving words of farewell, but he would have to offer well-deserved praise. Sincere praise, too. Maybe that would soothe the sting of Erik's departure – at least, for a while.

"Now drink up." Emma placed the tea on the small table next to Charles. "Earl Grey, your favorite. I added a bit of milk, too."

Charles preferred tea without milk, but this wasn't the moment to say so. "Thank you, Emma. Aren't you having any yourself?"

"Me? Oh, no." For some reason she seemed amused by the question. "I had coffee earlier."

_Serra Geral. Serra Geral. Santa Ma … something, dammit. Serra Geral._

Charles lifted the cup, surprised by the weakness in his hands. Was he that feverish? He didn't feel hot. The chill in his flesh seemed to reach deep into his marrow.

Sebastian appeared on the terrace then, Beardsley only a few steps behind. Normally Beardsley only showed Charles the most basic politeness, which was what made it startling when he walked to Charles' side now. "You don't look well."

 _That means I must look terrible_ , Charles thought.

"I think Charles might have been overindulging in our Rio nightlife." Sebastian chuckled as he followed Beardsley; his hand patted Charles' shoulder – a little too hard. As though he were nervous. What would Sebastian have to be nervous about?

"You know perfectly well I went to bed early last night," Charles said with as much spirit as he could muster. Only after he'd spoken the words did he recognize the double entendre, something he would normally have avoided in Beardsley's presence. Nothing to do but keep going. "I suspect I'm coming down with a cold, or influenza."

"Influenza!" Beardsley went pale. Charles realized the man was old enough to remember the ravages of the Spanish flu. Apparently his fear of that contagion outweighed his contempt for Sebastian's "playmate," because his concern was undoubtedly genuine. "We should summon Dr. Anderson at once."

Charles remembered the name; he had been among the Shaws' guests at their grand soiree. He would prefer going without medical help if the only alternative was a Nazi doctor. "Dr. Anderson" was probably an alias, and if this physician was one of the ones who had experiments on helpless children in the death camps – "I'll be fine, really," Charles said.

"Of course." Emma stepped between Charles and Beardsley. "The best cure is rest and sleep."

"And plenty of cups of tea," Sebastian said.

Maybe hot tea would warn this desperate chill within him. Charles took another sip.

Both Emma and Sebastian smiled.

It wasn't concern in their eyes. It was happiness. _Glee._

Charles' gaze shifted from their faces down to the cup of tea in his hands, then back up to them – still smiling – and he knew.

_I'm being poisoned._

For how long? But he knew the answer: since the night of the soiree.

_Maybe it's just because Sebastian saw too much of the kiss, and he realized I loved Erik and not him…_

No such luck. Sebastian wasn't the type to murder over a lover's quarrel. That night, when he and Erik had broken into the wine cellar, they'd made a mistake. Charles didn't know what it was, and it didn't matter, because Sebastian knew. He _knew._ They'd been found out.

His mission had failed, and now Sebastian and Emma wanted to see him dead.

Charles set down the cup of tea. He wanted it away from him, out of his sight. "Maybe you're right, Mr. Beardsley." Could they hear the sudden fear in his voice? "A doctor might not be a bad idea. If we could ride into town –"

"Don't be silly." Emma's hand stroked his hair, a possessive touch that made him shudder. "You can't possibly travel. We'll put you in your room, let you sleep. And we can get you some more tea to drink."

He'd have to run for it. But even as Charles got to his feet, the ground seemed to shift under him. The sky whirled overhead. For a moment everything was gone but his hearing _– surely we should call the hospital – he's only fainted – worst time to move him –_

When Charles could see again, he was supported between Emma and Sebastian as they walked him toward the stairwell. He was powerless to resist them; he could not even have stood on his own.

Charles thought, _This is how I die. Slowly, by poison, in the bed of a man I hate._

_As a failure._

Sebastian called to the butler. "See that Mr. Xavier is not disturbed for any reason. No visitors. Keep his curtains draw. And remove the telephone on that floor. The ringing might disturb his sleep."

Emma murmured, "And Charles needs to sleep for a long, long time."

If he could not find the strength to escape this house – and Charles didn't see how he could – there would be no way out.


	10. Someone To Watch Over Me

There is no stronger prison than the human body.

The bed was only five feet from Charles' bedroom door. The bedroom door was only fifteen feet from the stairs. The stairs were only another twenty feet from the Shaws' front door. Less than two minutes' walking for the average person, if they didn't dawdle.

Charles couldn't even make it out of the bedroom.

The somber nurse Emma and Sebastian had hired to "help" him did not speak English; Charles did not have enough Portuguese to make her understand anything so complex as his current situation. While she would get him to the toilet and back, she shook her head and scolded him in Portuguese every time he motioned toward the bedroom door.

He only tried that once or twice. What good would it do? He could hardly get the nurse to sneak him out of the house and drive him into downtown Rio – and nothing less than that could save him.

Charles had done what he could for himself. Never had he suggested that he suspected Emma or Sebastian, swallowing his pride every time they came in to cluck over him and say kind, empty words. The thinly disguised pleasure they took in his weakness revolted him, but he responded as if they were his most cherished friends, and their concern for him was real. If they believed he did not suspect them, they might be off their guard and make a mistake. Unlikely, but it had to be tried.

The greatest difficulty was the food. At first he had refused anything, claiming to be nauseated. (Which, increasingly, he was.) He had been able to successfully dodge drinking anything but water. Yet the nurse's inexorable urging forced him to eat occasionally. If he held out too long, too often, Sebastian would realize how much Charles knew.  Although he tried to stick to things that would be difficult or impossible to poison – such as toast – Charles knew the Shaws were still managing to drug him.

He knew this because he was getting worse, not better.

Fatigue deeper than the worst influenza had completely claimed him. His hands shook; his vision blurred. As the days went on (three? Five? It was hard to know – ) Charles found his mind wandering more and more. He found it difficult to concentrate, to remember.

Once or twice he even forgot why he was sick, what was happening to him. That realization terrified Charles. If he couldn't keep his wits about him, whatever chance of escape he had would be lost.

But it didn't seem like he had a chance to begin with.

The only weakness he'd been able to discover in the Shaws was one he could not exploit: They were desperate to keep their partners in crime from realizing that Charles was an American spy.

"How kind of you to ask after him!" Emma trilled one day, her voice loud enough to carry from downstairs. "But there's no need for Dr. Anderson, surely."

"It was only a suggestion," Mathis said. Even from that distance, Charles had been able to tell that Mathis had realized there was something odd about Emma and Sebastian's desire to isolate Charles completely during his illness. And later that afternoon (the next day? Two days later?), he'd managed to overhear Sebastian whispering to Emma that Beardsley " _kept asking questions_." No doubt if their foolishness in trusting Charles were discovered, both Mr. and Mrs. Shaw would be doomed; they might even predecease Charles himself.

But what good did that do? Even if Charles were able to speak to Mathis or Beardsley – unlikely at any rate – he would hardly save himself by admitting he worked for the Americans.

Still, he'd take the Shaws down with them, and sometimes that seemed reason enough to do it. And maybe he would earn a swift death instead of a slow one. Sometimes, when nausea and muscle cramps overtook him, Charles thought he would welcome a quick, merciful knife to the heart.

This was the fever talking, really. Charles would remain silent. As long as the Nazis didn't realize the Americans were onto them, and even Emma and Sebastian remained uncertain of exactly how much of their plot had been revealed – Erik and his team stood a chance of taking them all down. To speak would be to alert the entire Nazi organization that they'd been exposed.

Silence meant death, and death meant a kind of victory.

 _You succeeded_ , Charles thought. _You took on an important mission and you accomplished almost everything they wanted. Erik's people know about the uranium ore. If only I could have told them about the Serra Geral – but Erik's smart. He'll figure out the rest. Sebastian and Emma won't get away with this._

In his blurry mind, Charles found his thoughts returning to Erik more and more often. The last time he'd seen Erik, they'd been in the movie theater, his face illuminated by the screen. Charles had been so wounded by Erik's decision to leave Brazil that he'd hurried out, thinking it would spare him pain.

He should have stayed as long as Erik would linger. Should have looked at Erik's face every single time he got the chance. The anger he'd felt had melted away; all that remained was gratitude. Charles had truly fallen in love for the first time in his life. No matter how it had ended, that love was a gift.

Erik had given him more than love, too. Erik had brought him here – and even as Charles lay dying, he knew taking the mission had been the right thing to do.

_You came here for the chance to redeem yourself. To learn the cost of one human soul. The price turns out to be your life._

_So be it._

 

**

 

Erik had been deliberately harsh with Charles throughout most of their meets, for what he still felt was Charles' own good.

But today was the last time. Today, at least, Erik could give Charles his due.

_Nobody else could have infiltrated the Nazi cell this swiftly. You've done exemplary work throughout your mission. I think you're the match of anyone I met in the resistance – I would have given much to fight besides you._

Was that too much? Surely not. Erik meant it, and he and Charles were past the point of danger. His next assignment had already been given to him; within five days he would leave for Argentina. They would have this final conversation in a movie theater, and then Charles would slip out of his life forever.

Or – Charles still had the lease on his apartment, and it was so close to the cinema. For a moment Erik allowed himself to imagine them back there, kissing as heatedly as they had the first time, his hands unknotting the tie around Charles' neck as they stumbled toward the bed –

No. That was a privilege Erik didn't deserve, and one he suspected Charles was no longer willing to give. Their love affair would remain enclosed in a single afternoon, in a rain forest glade that had made them feel as though the world belonged to them alone.

Now that Erik's departure was so imminent, he'd allowed himself to think of that day more often. Because of this, in some ways he had only begun to realize how powerful their connection might have been, were that day not the entirety of their affair, but only a beginning.

Charles meant so much to him. Too much. Erik knew he was getting out at the last possible moment. But he was getting out, and that meant the truth couldn't hurt either of them any longer. Some of it would remain unspoken, of course – but at last Erik could acknowledge it within his own heart.

Today, he would give Charles his due. His respect. And he would say that if there were such a thing as redemption, perhaps Charles had won it.

Erik held to this resolution as he went to the cinema, bought his ticket, sat in the back row and pretended to be highly interested in some strange movie featuring Judy Garland as a mail-order bride. But as the minutes drew on, and Charles still failed to appear, irritation wore at Erik's good intentions. Was Charles drinking so much that he'd lost his effectiveness as a spy? Did he even remember this meet?

He did. Of course he did. He always would. Charles could no more forget this day than Erik could himself.

And as the minutes turned into hours, irritation faded, and became fear.

 

**

 

"Xavier hasn't shown?" Landau looked concerned, but not nearly worried enough. "You're sure he's not on another bender."

"No. He wouldn't miss our last meet." There should be an objective, tactical reason for this. "Otherwise he wouldn't know how to contact his next handler."

"Might've gotten to like the high life. The Shaws have a pretty classy setup."

"Charles hates it there. He always has done. So that isn't it."

Landau took a deep drag on his cigarette, then blew the smoke up toward the hanging light. "Probably Xavier thought he was being followed. If he ran into one of the Shaws in the city, or another of their associates, he'd have to abort the meet."

Basic spycraft. Charles would know how to handle such a situation. It was what Erik would've done in his place.

So that was the sensible, sane explanation for Charles' absence.

Yet Erik did not believe it.

"Something's wrong," he said to Landau. "I'm almost sure of it."

Landau raised his eyebrows. "When did you start trusting in hunches?"

"This is more than a hunch. We've seen the Shaws shift their behavior in the past couple of weeks – avoiding some of their past associates – and we thought it might be coincidence. We didn't have enough information to assume otherwise. But now our man on the inside has missed an extremely important meet."

"Not if he simply had to call it off – "

"I waited for hours! Charles could have lost whoever was tailing him and returned to the theater in that amount of time. He's more than good enough for that."

"He might not have had the chance! Listen to yourself, Lehnsherr. You're being irrational. Getting spooked. We're close to catching these bastards; it's no time to panic."

"It's no time to abandon an operative, either."

Landau rose to his feet. In his face was something of the feeling that had led Erik to trust him in the first place – not only as a fellow enemy of the Nazis, or a fellow Jew who had managed to rise within this clandestine ranks, but as a human being. "When Xavier accepted this assignment, he also accepted certain risks. You made that clear to him, didn't you?"

It took Erik a moment to nod.

"All right. I can tell you feel … responsible for the man. Nobody wants to lose an operative, particularly not one who's done solid work up until now. But there's no proof that Xavier's in any greater danger now than he's been at any other point on this mission. We shouldn't risk everything now. Even if Xavier _has_ been caught – that's a sacrifice we all accepted as a possibility."

Erik had accepted so many sacrifices. What was one more?

So he told himself, and he didn't believe. "We could send someone to the Shaws' house with – a message, a 'lost trunk' from his journey to Brazil – "

"Don't lose your nerve now," Landau said. His voice turned stern again as he added, "And don't go off-book on this. You've been warned."

Erik did not give a damn about warnings. He walked out of the office, onto the street, thinking only that the American intelligence community was sorely mistaken if they believed he was in this for promotions and pay raises. Were they to dismiss him completely, Erik could continue his own private pursuit of the Nazis – with fewer resources, but perhaps deadlier results.

Yet Landau's words made him think long and hard about sacrifice.

He had surrendered his own life to this work, and had survived the war against his expectations and to some extent against his will. He had given up Magda, and little Anya, to deaths so terrible that he would have nightmares about them all his life. Now, perhaps, fate had called upon Erik to sacrifice Charles, too.

 _There is no redemption_ , he thought. _Only the prices we pay._

And yet – if he'd been given a chance to save Magda and Anya from the flames, at any risk, at any cost –

The mere thought of such a chance made Erik go still, standing alone on the sidewalk as the Rio crowds flowed around him. He'd never imagined saving them before; it had been so futile, so impossible.  But if he'd had such an opportunity, he would have done whatever it took.

Maybe Charles wasn't one more sacrifice. Maybe Charles was the one he could save.

Erik began to walk again, slowly, then more quickly.

Then he began to run.

 

**

 

When the Shaws' butler opened the door, Erik's smile was small and neat. "Erik Lehnsherr of Pan American Airways, here to see Mr. Shaw."

"Mr. Shaw is currently in a meeting," the butler said, his eyes flicking briefly toward a side door, an unconscious betrayal of his employer's location. "He may be occupied for some time."

"I can wait." Erik spoke pleasantly, and did not judge.

No doubt the butler was remembering the scene in front of the wine cellar, the way Erik and Charles had kissed. Yet he could not in politeness mention this, and apparently had been given no explicit orders to keep Erik from the house. The man's job required him to step aside and show Erik in.

Voices from behind the high doors of the study sounded familiar – yes, that was Beardsley, Erik had tracked him personally a few times now. Before Erik could make out any words, however, the butler hurriedly showed him to a bench on the far end of the enormous foyer. This location would make it difficult for Erik to eavesdrop.

And the bench was near the foot of the stairs.

The butler said, "I will of course let Mr. Shaw know you have arrived."

"Don't interrupt his meeting," Erik said easily. "Sounds important."

After a moment, the butler seemed to accept this. He said, "I'll find Mrs. Shaw," and then took himself off toward the back of the house.

This gave Erik a few seconds alone, which was all he needed. He bounded upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, until he reached the second floor. The third door he tried revealed a sumptuous bedroom, a surprised nurse, and there – lying in bed, eyes closed, pale as death – Charles.

When the nurse protested that her patient needed rest, Erik told her he was a doctor, and that her employers would expect her downstairs. She left, but with a distrustful glance behind her as she went.

Getting out of this house wouldn't be easy. It didn't matter. Charles was here.

"Charles," Erik whispered as he sat on the side of the bed. The satin bedspread shone in the lamplight, as if Charles were lying beneath a shimmering cloud. "Charles, wake up."

"Erik." Charles opened his eyes and smiled weakly, even as his head lolled to the side. "I thought it – it sounded like you, but – "

"What's wrong with you?" Erik took Charles' hand; it was cold to the touch.

" – I'm so glad you came." Charles' voice was hardly more than a whisper.

"I had to. I couldn't stand any more – waiting, worrying about you." He leaned closer, taking in Charles' pallor, his disorientation, the dead weight of his hand in Erik's. "You weren't hung over at the movie theater last time, were you? You were sick."

"Yes," Charles murmured. His eyes never left Erik's face, as if he thought this were a dream from which he might wake at any moment. "I was sick."

"What's wrong with you?"

"—Erik – "

Charles couldn't focus. Erik touched his face as he said, more insistently, "What is it? Tell me. You can tell me."

"They're poisoning me."

The horror was somehow worse because of the resignation on Charles' face. How long had he been here, knowing himself doomed, waiting to die?

Charles' voice weakened further as he continued, "I couldn't get away from them. I tried, but I'm too weak. And the nurse –"

"The nurse is gone now," Erik said. "How long have they been doing this to you?"

"Since the party. I don't know what went wrong, but – Sebastian and Emma, they found out."

That long. By now the poison in Charles' system might kill him no matter what. Erik knew this, but refused to consider it.

He slipped his arm beneath Charles' shoulders. "Come on. Try to sit up." Charles didn't try. Instead he lay there, limp and still not fully comprehending. So Erik pulled Charles up into a sitting position, with Charles' head braced against his shoulder. "That's it," he murmured. "Sit up. I'm going to get you out of here."

"I thought you had gone," Charles murmured.

"Not without seeing you again. I had to speak to you, at least once more."

"About – the new agent – "

"No." Erik had not acknowledged this was within him until this very moment. He might have told Charles the truth at their final meeting, or he might not. But with Charles in his arms, on the very edge of death, nothing less than the truth would do. "I had to leave, I thought. I had to get out. I couldn't bear seeing you with Sebastian. I couldn't keep putting you in danger. Because I love you. That's the real reason I was going away."

A slow, dreamy smile dawned on Charles' face. "Oh. You love me. You love me."

Erik glanced over his shoulder at the cracked-open door behind him. His car waited downstairs, but Charles was almost dead weight. How could he possibly smuggle Charles out of here?

Against Erik's chest, Charles murmured, "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I know. But I couldn't think straight, or see straight. I was – full of pain, and pretending I wasn't." How long had it been since Erik had even let himself admit he could still feel pain? "It tore me up, not having you. Not being able to protect you."

If Charles heard any of this, he gave no sign. He simply repeated, "Oh, you love me."

Erik could hide nothing now, from Charles or from himself. "Since the beginning."

Enough of this. They had to get out, now. If he managed to get Charles to a hospital, and Charles recovered, there would be time for all the blame Erik deserved, all the love he felt, everything.

With his free hand he grabbed the thick robe that lay across the bench at the foot of the bed. "Here. Put this on."

Charles rallied then, visibly struggling to focus. "Yes," he whispered. But he couldn't get his arm through the sleeve. He slumped back, and Erik had to catch him.

"Try to sit up," Erik said. If Charles couldn't even manage that, how were they going to get out?"

"Erik." Charles shook his head feebly. "I can't make it. You have to go, before they find you."

Ignoring this, Erik draped the robe around Charles' shoulders. "Keep awake. Keep talking."

"—yes – "

"Have you got a coat?" Today was one of the rare truly cold days of the Rio winter. Charles shrugged – not knowing, or not remembering. To hell with it, Erik decided. They were dealing with worse dangers than a chill.

As he tugged the robe more tightly around Charles' limp body, Charles said, "They didn't want the others to know about me. Mathis, and Beardsley – "

"Undoubtedly. Go on. Keep talking."

"Sebastian found out," Charles murmured. Apparently he couldn't remember that he'd told Erik this before.

Erik played along. "But the others don't know?"

"No. They'd kill Emma and Sebastian, if they found out."

Potentially useful, that. But then a shudder passed through Charles, one that contorted Charles' face and sent a shard of cold terror into Erik's heart. "Are you in pain?"

"I don't know. So many pills."

Erik quickly took stock and made his decision. Slipping Charles out of here secretly, in this condition – it was impossible.

They'd walk out the front door instead.

"Give me your feet," he said as he began towing Charles' legs off the edge of the bed.

"Say it again," Charles murmured. "It keeps me awake."

"I love you." Erik strengthened his hold beneath Charles' shoulders. "Come on, stand up. Stand up."

Charles shook his head, not refusing, but as if he couldn't remember how.

"Wake up," Erik said. "Keep talking."

To Erik's surprise, Charles managed to rise then – not much, and he would have fallen but for Erik's arm under him, but it was enough to get them both on their feet. Charles murmured, "The ore – "

"Walk and talk." Erik took slow, measured steps as they went to the bedroom door, went through it. "Walk and talk."

"The ore comes from the Serra Geral. A town called Santa Ma … something."

Still, even now, Charles remained focused on the mission. Erik felt a surge of pride almost as powerful as his fear. "We'll find it. We'll take care of it. Come on."

They'd reached the stairs. This would be the hardest part.

"I'm afraid," Charles said. His eyes focused for a moment as he looked down the seemingly endless steps. "They're all in this house. We can't make it."

"We have to try."

"Don't leave me."

Erik shook his head as he guided Charles down the first step. "You'll never get rid of me again."

Charles smiled at him, for one instant restored to his full self. "I never tried to."

Then the doors to the study swung open. The voices became louder, and Sebastian Shaw stepped into the foyer.

Into Charles' ear, Erik whispered, "Brace up. Keep going."

Sebastian went pale at the sight of them, and hurried up the steps. "Charles, what are you doing? What is this, Mr. Lehnsherr?"

"I'm taking him to the hospital," Erik said, clearly and loudly enough for the men below to hear – then added, more quietly, "to get the poison out of him."

Sebastian said, "I don't know what you mean –"

"Like hell you don't," Erik said. "Would you like your friends downstairs to know?"

Mathis and Beardsley stood there, staring. Surely they hadn't yet guessed exactly what was happening or why – but if Charles, obviously ill, wasn't immediately taken to a doctor, they would ask questions. They might even come up with the right answers, the ones that would condemn the Shaws to death.

Erik and Sebastian's eyes met. In that instant, Erik realized that Sebastian understood. He had no loyalty to his Nazi friends that could outweigh his desire to save his own skin.

"Charles?" Emma came hurrying up the steps. The butler had apparently found her working in her terrace garden, soil-grubby gloves still on her hands. "What are you doing up? We've got to get you back to your room."

"No." Charles managed to shake his head. "I won't go back."

"He needs a hospital," Erik said, more loudly. "Or should we call an ambulance? Bring help here?"

From the way the Shaws reacted, Erik knew they'd realized he would summon far more than medical help.

Beardsley called, "What's going on?" 

"It's – it's Charles!" Sebastian finally said. "His condition has taken a turn for the worse."

Emma nodded, too quickly. "The hospital. Yes. You should go at once."

"We're going," Erik whispered to Charles. In the same tone of voice, he said to the Shaws, "You haven't forgotten what they did to Hupka, have you?"

"Sebastian, _help him_ ," Emma urged. And Sebastian stepped aside, not only allowing Erik to keep walking Charles down the steps but also supporting Charles on the other side. The two Nazis standing at the foot of the stairs never stopped watching them, the entire way down. Emma ran ahead of them, gesturing frantically to the butler to open the front door.

When it swung open, Erik could see his car, and escape, and Charles' last and only chance.

"There will be repercussions for this," Sebastian hissed.

Lightly Erik said, "I doubt that very much."

"Don't underestimate what I can do. What I'm willing to do."

"Are you willing to die for the cause? Because here's your chance. Just tell your friends what's really going on." _Five more steps. Four. Three_. Erik looked at Charles – who by now could hardly put one foot in front of the other. _Come on, you can do this._

Mathis stepped forward then, though not far enough to block their path to the door. "Do you need any help?"

"We've got it," Erik said.

"Where are you taking him?" Beardsley demanded.

Erik gave Sebastian a look. "Answer them." From her place at the door, Emma mouthed, _Say something!_

"To the hospital," Sebastian said. "Overdue, it seems."

"I'm glad of it," Mathis replied. "You shouldn't have waited so long."

"Indeed not." Beardsley's eyes had taken on a dangerous glint. "What could you have been thinking, Sebastian?"

Erik turned his face to whisper in Charles' ear. "Only a few yards to go. Through the door, into the car. All right?"

"All right." Charles spoke almost too faintly to hear.

"What happened?" Beardsley asked as Erik and Sebastian took Charles to the door. Charles squinted up at the gray winter light, at a sky he had perhaps thought never to see again. "Had you not summoned a doctor?"

Hurriedly Sebastian called over his shoulder, "Ah, Charles collapsed. Fainted, dead away. It seems Mr. Lehnsherr heard her scream while he was waiting for me."

"That's it," Erik said easily. "And I telephoned the hospital immediately."

"Good." Emma's hands were clasped together in front of her. "Precisely the right thing to do."

Erik's foot left the last of the front steps and made contact with the ground. Charles leaned on him more heavily than ever, but by now he was staring at the car, as if willing himself to close this last distance.

"How do you feel?" Erik murmured to Charles.

"A bit dizzy." This was no doubt an understatement.

Squeezing Charles more tightly against his side, Erik said, "Take deep breaths."

"Just hurry, hurry," Charles said.

But they had it, now. Erik reached past Charles to open the passenger side door, and he and Sebastian poured Charles inside. Charles's head flopped to one side, his entire body limp; he had expended all his strength to reach the car, and could no longer remain coherent, possibly even conscious.

 _He's sick, so sick, please let me have reached him in time._ Erik hurried to the other side of the car, got in, and slid the keys in the ignition.

"Wait," Sebastian said. He stood just beside the car, framed from behind by his own front door and the two Nazis who stood there, waiting for him. "I have to go with you."

"No room," Erik said. The engine turned over.

Sebastian's eyes widened. "But you have to take me with you. They're watching me."

"Your problem. Not mine."

At the front door, Beardsley turned to Emma and said, "But I thought you gave orders for the phone to be taken out of the second floor. So the ringing would not disturb Charles. How did Mr. Lehnsherr call the hospital, then?"

Emma, unable to come up with a reply, merely gaped.

Forever after, Erik would regret that Charles wasn't able to watch Sebastian Shaw's face at that moment, when he broke. With white fingers he pressed against the car window, and he whispered, " _Please. Please_!" 

In reply, Erik reached past Charles to lock the door.

A gear shift into drive, and they were off, leaving Sebastian and his house behind, speeding down the long, winding road that would take them back to Rio. Erik glanced at Charles' limp, semi-conscious form and realized he might have waited too long for his rescue. Some poisons' effects couldn't be counteracted, not after a certain point. There was no guarantee any hospital could save Charles.

_At least I told him what I felt. At least he knows._

That wasn't enough. Not even close.

Erik stomped on the accelerator, hoping he might still make it to the hospital in time.

 

**

 

Sebastian Shaw stood in front of his house, staring after the disappearing car. Once it had vanished, he turned around to see Emma standing there, unshed tears sparkling in her eyes. Mathis and Beardsley stood on either side of her; their faces might have been carved of granite.

 _I shouldn't have fought Lehnsherr_ , Sebastian thought numbly. _If we'd rushed to their side and helped them out the door, everything would have been over so quickly that no questions would have been asked._ Instead they had argued and stuttered and contradicted themselves. They had raised suspicion.

And now they were exposed.

Every time they'd poured arsenic into Charles' tea, they hadn't been hastening Charles' death – only their own.

"Sebastian, will you come inside?" Beardsley called, as Mathis' hand closed around Emma's elbow. "We want to have a word with you."

Sebastian took a deep breath, then walked up the steps to his home, to his doom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **
> 
> The original "Notorious" ends here! But our story does not -- one more chapter to come.


	11. Come Rain or Come Shine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for taking so long with this, everyone. RL exploded. At last, the conclusion!
> 
> Also, I've been so completely cut off from fandom that I only just found out about Clawfoot Tub. She was the best kind of fangirl, and I hate that we've all lost her. All I can do is dedicate the fic to her memory.
> 
> **

Landau stood in the hospital corridor, harsh shadows carved into his face by the hanging lights above. "If you hadn't called for reinforcements before you pulled that little stunt – "

"I did call." Not that Erik had phoned Landau himself. That would only have resulted in yet another direct order not to interfere, perhaps even agents sent to tail him and prevent him from driving to the Shaws. By this time Charles might already have been dead. Instead Erik had summoned men lower on the totem pole, who'd followed Erik's orders without questioning his right to give them. "Mathis and Beardsley are in custody. Emma Frost Shaw can probably give testimony once her jaw has healed."

What was left of Sebastian Shaw was a mess, one Erik didn't have to deal with ever again.

"You jumped the gun," Landau said. "Risked the mission."

"I _saved_ the mission. Our operative had the last piece of the puzzle we needed to find the Nazis' source of uranium ore. If he'd died, we would have lost that information, possibly forever."

Landau sighed. Clearly he wanted to deliver a blistering lecture about obeying orders – one Erik was aware he deserved. But he wasn't a man to ignore results. Finally Landau said, "And Xavier?"

"He's been poisoned with arsenic," Erik said quietly. He still could not shake the horrible knowledge that Charles had been trapped for days, aware of his own slow execution and powerless to do anything to prevent it.

"What's the treatment for that?"

"Blood transfusions. Purgatives. Supportive care for the problems with – with his heart." He repeated the litany of medical efforts he'd heard from the doctor as though they were a religious chant, as though the words alone might be enough to make Charles well. It made the next easier to say. "But if the arsenic levels in his body are too high, nothing they do will help. If I reached him in time, however, and Charles makes it through the next couple of days, he should live. As for his long-term recovery – they won't know that for a great while to come."

 _He'll progress slowly,_ they had said. Even if Charles could recover fully, it might be months before he'd be back to normal. Erik brooded over those months, on how much help Charles would need, because that way he didn't have to think about the next two days, when Charles' life hung in the balance – or about the future stretching out ahead of Charles if he never regained his health and strength.

"I sincerely hope the man gets well," Landau said. "He did good work for us, and you've given him a shot at survival. But if you go against direct orders again, Lehnsherr – "

"I won't."

"Glad to hear it."

"Because I quit."

Landau took a step backward. At any other time, surprising the man so profoundly might have been gratifying. "Quit? Over this? You haven't even been reprimanded! Officially, I mean."

"It's not that. You've been more than fair to me. But this – treating lives as cards we can play – I've lost my stomach for it."

"Thought you were made of sterner stuff."

"So did I." Erik no longer had any idea what he was made of, what might be left over when his ruthlessness had gone. He had no choice but to find out.

"Can't talk you out of it?" Landau said, more gently.

"No."

"What will you do next?" The question seemed more than polite, perhaps genuinely concerned. Landau was probably right to worry. Erik owned no home, held no lease. He possessed no personal items that wouldn't fit in one small suitcase. The few friends he had lived on other continents. His bank account was reasonably sturdy – Erik spent virtually none of his salary this past year – but he was rusty on the few job skills he had for civilian life.

And yet. "I'll figure something out."

Landau sighed. "It's been a pleasure working with you, Lehnsherr."

Pleasure was too strong a word, and Erik knew it, but he appreciated the politeness. "We accomplished a great deal. I'm grateful for that."

"If you call my office and explain that someone's calling for a job reference for you, just let me know what industry I'm supposed to be in, what skills you're supposed to have, and I'll sing your praises."

Despite everything, Erik laughed. "Much appreciated."

"You'll be staying behind to make sure Xavier's well, I take it? Then there are a few things you ought to know – "

 

**

 

Erik had told the staff of the hospital that he was Charles' "cousin," his closest relation in South America. This gave him the right to stand at Charles' bedside and consult with the doctors on his care.

It did not give him the right to stay behind after visiting hours had ended.

In his final moments in the hospital that evening, as the nurse stood impatiently in the doorway, Erik looked down at Charles. He had been unconscious since shortly after his arrival – an understandable effect of the treatment he'd been given – but Erik could not shake the fear that Charles would never wake again.

 _At least I said it_ , Erik thought. But he did not think promising his love to Charles had the power to keep Charles alive. This was a battle between Charles' body and the arsenic. Erik could only watch.

He went home, turned on no lights, opened his window and put on the radio set. As music filled the room, Erik poured a whisky and sat down to stare out at the lights of Rio.

Glenn Miller came on. "Moonlight Serenade." That was one of the songs that had played at Charles' party, the one Erik had crashed. They had listened to this as they introduced themselves, talked in circles, flirted. Erik had told himself that he was merely playing a role, appealing to Xavier's known tastes, nothing more.

He'd thought he was too old to be such a fool.

 _Please,_ he thought. It was not a prayer; he no longer believed in anything he could pray to. Yet he could not stop himself from saying this to the void. _Please let Charles live._

Stupid. If anything was in the heavens to hear, it would not listen to Erik. When had it ever? The world had torn apart his country, decimated his people, starved his wife, burned his child to cinders. Why did Erik dare to think there was anyone or anything he could keep?

 _Not for me_ , he thought. _Don't save him for me. Save him for himself. Charles deserves that._

Maybe Charles had better relations with the Divine than Erik did – or so Erik came to think as the days went on. Maybe chance simply worked in Charles' favor, like dice rolling double sixes. Or maybe, finally, there was one person in Erik's life that he would be allowed to keep.

Erik did not care why it came to pass. He only knew the painful relief of the moment when the doctors told him Charles would live.

 

**

 

The first thing Charles said to Erik – consciously, with full intent and memory – was, "I want to go home."

"Of course," Erik said. "I'll take you home."

Charles breathed out in relief. He could tell he felt better, but was in a place where "better" was still pretty bad. The doctors said at this point all he could do was rest, eat well and drink nothing stronger than milky Earl Grey. How could anyone properly rest in hospital? _God, yes, sleep and more sleep and never, ever having to see Sebastian Shaw again, that's all I want._

Erik murmured, "I can arrange for flights back to Miami as soon as you're well enough to travel. Or a ship, maybe. You could rest on board, if you're not given to seasickness – "

"No. I didn't mean Miami. Just – someplace of my own."

"… your flat in Cinelândia Square?"

"Please," Charles said, before falling back to sleep. He nodded off quickly, those first few days.

A paid nurse accompanied them back from the hospital and helped get Charles settled in again. She might have stayed longer, but through no fault of her own she reminded Charles of the woman Sebsastian and Emma had hired to keep him prisoner in his room. Once he was able to get himself to and from the toilet, he asked Erik to send her on her way.

But even that small distance was difficult to cross – and as the days went on, Charles realized this was not purely a matter of weakness and exhaustion. He required considerable effort to move his legs, and his sloppy coordination improved only so much. The effect seemed to get worse further down his body; while his hands had full dexterity and nearly full strength, his legs stayed wobbly, and his feet were barely within his control. _You may deal with enduring motor neuropathy_ , the doctor had said. So this was what he'd meant. Charles might have the ability to get around his own flat or house, perhaps would even be able to travel along the sidewalk with a cane – but it seemed as though he might never walk normally again.

Other effects seemed likely to linger as well. The alopecia he'd suffered during his poisoning had been severe, and no new hair had begun to grow. At the moment, his hair was only thin; however, Charles had known from his father and both his grandfathers that baldness lay in his future. Now it would be upon him in five years instead of thirty.

It wasn't as if that mattered nearly as much as his weak legs. Charles found himself thinking of it often, however; the smaller loss distracted him.

At least other effects faded quickly. The unnatural flush in his cheeks and extremities lightened to mere rosiness, and would in time vanish completely. Edema had weighted his lungs the first week, but his breathing lightened day by day. Jaundice disappeared along with the rashes.

 _So I shall feel healthy again_ , Charles told himself in an attempt to be positive, during one of his brief periods of lucidity. _If I feel well, the rest doesn't matter so much._

He managed such cheerfulness about half the time he was awake. The other half he sometimes spent in tears.

As those waking hours slowly increased, Charles became able to focus on his situation beyond the state of his body. Most importantly, Charles realized that Erik was staying at his flat every night.

They spoke little, mostly because it took several days for Charles to remain awake and focused for more than three or four minutes at a time. But he felt as if he kept thinking about Erik even in his sleep. At times the patient person next to him seemed to be no more than a silent shadow, and it took Charles' eyes a while to focus normally again, but he felt he knew Erik by his presence alone. Certainly it was Erik who brought him tea and toast on a tray, who took his temperature and talked on the phone with the doctors, who kept a glass of water refilled at his bedside. Charles wasn't sure, but he thought Erik might have given him a sponge bath once.

 _Just my luck,_ he thought as he turned over in bed to stare up at the ceiling. _Erik finally took off all my clothes, and I can hardly remember it._

Then Charles realized – he was thinking, and awake, his mind clearer than it had been since he'd grown ill enough to suspect poison. Apparently the worst of that poison had finally left his body.

He propped himself up on his elbows and looked around. As little time as he'd spent in this flat, it felt like _his_ , which was enough. Books he'd brought from Miami lay stacked upon the few small shelves; while he couldn't yet imagine having the concentration to read, the mere hope gave him joy. The faint hum of noise outside carried all the bustle and energy of Cinelândia Square – infinitely better than the eerie hush around Sebastian Shaw's mansion.

And a fresh glass of water sat beside his bed.

After Charles had managed to reach the bathroom, he decided he could walk to the kitchen as well. Maybe he could have tea and toast with Erik, today – if Erik really was here.

When he padded into the kitchen, Charles peered through the pass-through to see Erik lying on the long sofa, a pillow under his head and a thin coverlet over his body. Even though this was more or less what Charles had expected, he was overcome by a rush of feeling that forced him to brace himself against the counter.

Feeling, and memory.

 _I love you._ Erik had said it – Charles was sure – in fact, he'd said it more than once, hadn't he? The entire escape from the Shaws' home had blurred into fear and pain, and Emma's face gone white with terror, and the feel of Erik's arm around him, holding him up. _It tore me up, not having you. Not being able to protect you._

_I love you._

Surely it must be true, because otherwise Erik could not be here.

Perhaps Erik's senses had been honed to razor-sharpness by his time in the resistance. At any rate, the mere sound of Charles' feet on the kitchen floor was enough to wake him. "Charles?" Erik sat up, coverlet falling away from him to reveal he wore nothing but an undershirt and boxers. "Do you need anything?"

Charles began to smile. He felt as if he hadn't smiled in years. "Just breakfast."

"I'll get it for you. Go back to bed."

"I'm tired of being in bed," Charles said, lowering himself carefully into one of the kitchen chairs. Even the pale early sunlight seemed bright to his eyes by now.

Erik walked into the kitchen as well and set about making Charles' breakfast without another word. For a moment Charles simply enjoyed having Erik near – tending to him – but a few thoughts pushed their way into his head. First, that Erik was not merely staying here, but apparently living in this flat with him. In the far corner of the small living room, Charles could see a couple of battered suitcases, ones he remembered Erik wrangling on their flights from Miami to Rio. Second, Erik was half-naked, which was entirely new to Charles. For all that they had made love in the rain forest, he had never even gotten so far as fully removing one article of Erik's clothing.

Third, he had apparently recovered enough to notice attractive, half-clothed men again. This was encouraging.

Fourth, Erik had to be taking an incredible risk.

"Your superiors," Charles said. "Where do they think you are?"

"I don't have any superiors any longer. I quit."

"What?"

Erik didn't look up from his tasks: pressing down the tab on the toaster, placing a bag in Charles' tea mug. "I've left intelligence work for the time being, and probably forever."

"But why?"

"Lost my stomach for it."

The room seemed to sway beneath Charles, around him, and he realized Erik might have had a point about his needing to be back in bed. But this conversation was far too important to walk away from. "You lost your stomach for hunting Nazis? I find that difficult to believe."

"Not for that." Erik stared resolutely at the blue gas flame beneath the kettle.

Charles knew what this meant, or thought he knew. Yet whatever deeper emotions had stirred Erik before had become invisible. Erik spoke to Charles with a clinical detachment. Like he was merely the next hired nurse.

Was that how you talked to a man you loved?

_But Erik might have said he loved me only because he thought I would die – or to motivate me to get downstairs as best I could –_

"What will you do now?" Charles said.

Erik shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Do you think you're ready for butter on your toast?"

"Let's hope so." In fact, he'd begun to feel something approaching actual hunger; if it kept up, he'd ask for something more substantive in a few hours. But even the need for food seemed remote and unimportant compared to the mystery of why Erik was here, and what it meant.

Charles would have asked, if Erik would even look at him, but he would not.

 _Maybe I look a sight_. Self-conscious, Charles ran one hand through his hair and felt again the thinness there, the unexpected contact of fingers and scalp. Redness still ringed his fingernails. No doubt he bore little resemblance to the playboy Erik had met in Miami a few months ago.

"Good news, by the way." Erik caught the kettle just before the water would have boiled, and poured. "Even though the State Department only paid up through the end of this month on the lease, you can afford to keep it as long as you like – or to go back to Miami, or New York, wherever you please."

"Not likely. Or is this flat cheaper than I thought?"

"First of all, you get hazard pay for completing this mission, which covers you for months. But that's the least of it. The investigation into Kurt Marko's finances revealed that he'd hidden nearly a million dollars of your father's money in various secret accounts. You and your sister are the rightful heirs to the money, of course, and Landau has already put through the paperwork that should turn the accounts over to you." The toast popped up; Erik smoothly began spreading butter. "In other words, you're rich again."

"Thank God," Charles sighed. "Don't get me wrong – after the past month, I never want to see the inside of a mansion again. But I'm in no state to look for work."

And if he never managed to walk correctly again, what sort of work could he do? Academia, perhaps – that long-deferred dream – if anyone would still take him.

"Do you think Landau would call some people I'm applying to work with, let them know I never worked with Marko?" Charles asked. "Or is that against policy?"

"They can probably come up with something." Erik set the tea and toast in front of Charles, hesitated, then turned away again and snapped on the radio. Probably he meant to keep the mood light – but failed, because the music playing was a slow, sweet ballad about loving someone no matter what.

Charles blurted out, "Is it because I'm sick?"

Erik finally faced him, his expression confused. "What? Is that why I'm making you toast?"

"No – I mean, yes, but – Erik, why are you acting like this? You won't even look at me." He wrapped his arms around himself, though he suspected the chill he felt was imaginary. "After you said you – after you said that to me at the mansion, I thought we would – well, I thought you'd look at me. Am I so ruined you don't want to –"

" _No_." Instantly Erik sat at the small table's other chair. "How could you think that? You're not ruined. You've survived an ordeal that would have killed most men."

"My hair – "

"To hell with your hair. You're … perfect."

"Hardly." Charles managed to laugh, though now he felt more like crying. "But why are you being so strange?"

"It's hardly strange." Erik's smile was stiff, aimed at his own weakness. "I've always treated you this way. All that pushing, to keep you at a distance, and yet here you are."

Asking more questions would do little good. Instead Charles kept his eyes locked on Erik's as he sipped his tea. Silence would have to demand answers for him.

After a long moment, Erik finally said, "You must be angry."

"At Sebastian and Emma? I suppose." Charles frowned, toast in hand. "Earlier, at the hospital – you said Emma survived, but Sebastian didn't. Am I remembering that right?"

"Yes. But I meant – angry with me."

It took Charles a second to realize he hadn't misheard. "Why would I be angry with you? You rescued me. You saved my life."

"Your life was only in danger because of the mission I sent you on." Erik's head lowered, like a condemned man before the executioner's block. "They were poisoning you, and I knew you weren't well, but I didn't see what was happening in front of my own eyes."

"I didn't understand at first either," Charles said, but Erik was in no mood to listen.

"You were trapped in that house for days, weeks, knowing they were murdering you and unable to do anything. Another form of Nazi torture, Nazi hell – that's what I subjected you to. I should never have asked you to take on such a risk; I should've quit before I let anyone do that to you."

"Stop talking." Charles' voice sounded stronger than he would've thought he could manage. Erik fell silent. "Listen to me. You didn't torture me. You didn't poison me. Those were the risks of the mission, and you made it clear to me from the very first that I'd be facing those risks. I went in with my eyes open."

"You can't have expected this."

"Poison in my tea? No." Charles glanced at the cup in front of him, from which a few tendrils of steam still rose. "But I knew I could die, and I chose to take the mission anyway. I made that choice because I wanted a chance to redeem myself. And that's what I found. Redemption. My silence and my fear and my delays – that's all washed away now, don't you see? I did it. I really did it. And trust me, Erik – even when I thought the Shaws would kill me, I knew I'd won my soul back. So I knew it was worth it. You _gave_ me that chance at redemption, and I thank you for it. Do you understand? I thank you from the bottom of my heart."

Erik nodded. His eyes were red-rimmed now, but he was not the sort of man to cry – even at a moment like this, with a love song on the radio.

So Charles ate a bit of his breakfast, loathing the silence, loving the song, and taking far too much comfort in merely being close to Erik again. Alone with him.

Finally, Erik spoke again, his voice hoarse. "I'll take care of you as long as you need me. I'll get you back to the States, or wherever it is you want to go. But whenever you're ready – you deserve your freedom. I'll give you that."

 _He loved me all along. From the beginning. He hid it then and he's hiding it now. I have to believe that._ Charles screwed up his courage. "Freedom and solitude aren't the same thing."

"I mean, if you want – "

"Don't you know what I want?" Charles stopped himself from pleading. If Erik could not permit himself happiness, or if the "love" he'd felt was sparked only by the fear of Charles' imminent death, best to know now. "Erik, tell me. What do _you_ want?"

It took Erik several moments to answer. "I … I want a chance to redeem myself."

He said no more; he didn't have to. Charles understood. Erik wanted redemption for abandoning his wife and child to death, for nearly doing the same to Charles as well. Even though Charles believed he needed no redemption for any of this, because he'd only made the hard choices wartime sometimes demanded, that didn't matter. Erik believed it, and that was enough.

Redemption could only be won in two ways: though sacrifice or through love. Charles felt they'd both endured enough sacrifice for a while.

"Then stay with me," Charles said. "Just stay."

Erik seemed to struggle for words, until finally he gave up and only nodded. But that was enough to make Charles dizzy with happiness –

\--well, maybe it was happiness. Or maybe it was the result of getting so worked up on his first day up and around.

"Hey," Erik said. His hand closed around Charles' forearm. "Are you all right?"

"Might have rushed things a bit," Charles admitted.

"Come on. We'll get you back in bed."

That could have sounded so much more exciting, if Charles had thought he were capable of doing a damned thing in bed besides sleeping. Instead he submitted to Erik helping him from his chair, and walking him back into his bedroom. Charles knew he needed to rest – but he also knew he was sick of that bed, sick of these pajamas. And he still had the illogical, inescapable feeling that the poison was seeping from him, creating a treacherous film upon his skin. He wanted to wash it all away.

"A shower," he said. "I'd like to shower first, if you don't mind."

Erik hesitated, then said, "All right."

Charles was settled on the edge of the bed, where he began removing his pajamas as best he could on his own. Erik stepped into the bathroom, turned on the water – amazing, how pleasant and reassuring that could sound, the mere spray of water on tile – and returned to Charles' side. But instead of helping Charles with his clothing, he began stripping off his own.

It wasn't as if he hadn't known Erik's body would be beautiful, but finally seeing him nude took Charles' breath away. His own weary flesh wouldn't respond, but it was enough for now simply to look. To take in the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips, the fine ripples of muscle underneath scarred skin.

So many scars.

"Here." Erik helped Charles out of his boxers, then led him into the bathroom. _The first time we're naked together, and it's like this,_ Charles thought as Erik helped him carefully step under the nozzle. _We'll do better soon._

Hot water sprayed along his back, and Charles groaned in real pleasure. A few of the places still reddened from the poison's effects stung – but only slightly. Mostly he felt himself relaxing, his breaths deepening, as the water coursed over him.

Erik had stepped into the shower too, though he made no movement to clean himself. His hands supported Charles; one braced him at the waist, the other at the shoulder. Charles simply held on as he dipped his head backward and let the water flow through what was left of his hair. It felt good knowing that Erik had him no matter what.

"How do I begin?" Erik said roughly.

"To make love to me?" Charles couldn't resist. "I think we'll need to wait a while. But, oh, I promise to make up for lost time."

"No, no." Erik slid one hand up from Charles' shoulder, along his neck, to cradle his face. "I meant – putting things right. Redeeming myself."

For their uncertain beginning, he meant. For the cruelty he'd sometimes treated Charles with – though Charles understood why Erik had behaved that way. This was a man who could love deeply and profoundly, but who still had almost no idea of how to express that love.

Not that the world gave them any help. Two men together – it was the stuff of dirty jokes and police raids, not romantic songs on the radio. And yet Charles knew he and Erik belonged together; they belonged _to_ each other. He thought he'd realized that the first time he watched Erik bite into a slice of pineapple. As raggedly as their edges fit together, and as little practice as they'd ever had at sharing their souls with someone else, he believed they could find a way.

"Listen to me," Charles said. Water had beaded along his skin; Erik looked down at him through the shower's steam, "You can't buy a soul back cheaply."

Erik answered too quickly. "I know." His face appeared so stricken – his eyes almost haunted. Water trickled from his dark hair along his face, like tears. "But as long as it takes – whatever it takes – I will give that to you. I swear it."

"It takes a life," Charles said. "Nothing less than a life."

Erik nodded.

"Spend that life with me."

At any other time, it might have been almost funny – Erik's sheer bewilderment. But the moment was too precious and fragile for that. Too beautiful, too, as Charles finally saw deep within Erik's despair and finally glimpsed a flicker of hope. And it seemed to him he could see beyond this second, this instant with them standing in the shower, into a future so much better than anything either of them had ever known. Finding new places for themselves in a world that was remaking itself – endless nights in bed where the sex would be no rushed, shamed transaction but instead shared intimacy and ecstasy – learning how to love and be loved.

Slowly, Erik said, "Do you really mean that?"

Charles brought one hand to Erik's face, and smiled. "Try me."

 

 

 

THE END


End file.
